


Let's Have Breakfast

by Purple_Slippers_18



Series: One Hundred Threads [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Scandal in Belgravia - Reimagining, John Watson is The Soldier, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, au-ish, smartarse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purple_Slippers_18/pseuds/Purple_Slippers_18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had expected The Soldier to greet him in some sort of complicated leather and latex garb, or even completely starkers, just to get a shock out of his unexpected guest. He hadn't once suspected that John Watson would bother to meet him wearing one of the ugliest jumpers Sherlock had ever seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Worth a Thousand Words

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Readers!
> 
> Well, I think you're in for a treat. This story is an AU-ish/reimagining of A Scandal in Belgravia, where there is no Irene Adler, only John Hamish Watson, professionally known as The Soldier. Originally, this story was going to be a oneshot, but it's become so long that I've decided to split it up instead. I'm aiming for weekly updates, so let's keep our fingers crossed and hope that happens. 
> 
> This story has not been Birt Picked by anyone but myself. As a Canadian, I tried my best and I apologise in advance if I've made mistakes. Sorry. If you spot any errors, please send me a note and I'll make the corrections.
> 
> Now, enjoy!

 

“John Hamish Watson. Professionally known as The Soldier.” 

Sherlock didn't bother acknowledging Mycroft's briefing as he took the pictures from his brother. He was still annoyed that his sheet had been confiscated and clothes forced upon him, and all for something as trite as Buckingham Palace. 

He glanced at the first photograph, immediately recognizing the print as a web page. And from the provocative, sharply lit figure of a man's nude back – sandy blond hair cut in a short soldierly fashion, muted tan lines barely visible at his neck and wrists, shadows tastefully highlighting muscles that indicated years of upper body training (and a rather interesting scar on his left shoulder), and a pair of military tags hanging suggestively down the centre of the man's spine – it was obnoxiously clear exactly what sort of business The Soldier was in, and it certainly wasn't in service to his country.           

Well, at least not the sort of service one would expect. 

“Now try not to be alarmed, Sherlock,” Mycroft drawled, sipping his tea. “Mr Watson's vocation, as you can see, is to do with sex.”

“Sex doesn't alarm me,” Sherlock protested too quickly, practically snarling at Mycroft while his brother grinned snidely but otherwise kept his opinions to himself. “I assume this Mr Watson has some compromising photographs, then.” 

“You're very quick Mr Holmes.” 

Sherlock merely glanced at Harry Equerry – dog lover, horse rider, non-smoker – before writing him off as someone not worth his time. After all, the man associated with _Mycroft_.           

“Photographs of whom?” he asked dismissively, returning his full attention to the pages in his hand. The collection was pedestrian, a variety of typical poses meant to seduce the viewer into any one of several sexual fantasies. Strong hands deftly handling a British Army Browning L9A1, those winking military tags weaving around fine curling golden chest hairs and caressing one flat berry stained nipple, fatigues riding low on powerful hips while short but capable fingers teasingly crept underneath the waistband, and a rousing glamour shot of sculpted buttocks encased in blood red pants. 

Interestingly, none of the pictures showed John Watson's face. In fact, the most alluring image in the collection was an extreme close-up of The Soldier's eyes, a clear violet-blue, the pupils an infinite darkness that seemed full with age, experience, and the promise of...something.           

“A person of significance to my employer,” Equerry said, diverting the consulting detective's musings. “We'd prefer not to say anymore at this time.”           

Sherlock sniffed and rolled his eyes, disdain dripping from his pores.           

“I can tell you it's a young person,” Mycroft offered. “A young male person.”           

Understanding lit Sherlock's features and he smirked wickedly as he stared between his brother and Harry Equerry.           

“How many photographs?” he asked.           

“A considerable amount, we've been told, and in an imaginative range of scenarios.”           

“With Mr Watson and this young person,” Sherlock clarified, truly enjoying the scowl that twisted Mycroft's features. “Pay him. Whatever he wants. Now and in full.”           

“Mr Holmes!” Equerry protested.           

“Thank you for the tea,” Sherlock said, not meaning a word as he slipped on his coat, stood from the sofa, and started making his way out of the room.           

Honestly, it was juvenile of Mycroft to exaggerate what was a simple matter of blackmail, even more unforgivable of him to waste Sherlock's time by claiming the situation as a case worthy of his talents. After all, what concern was it of Sherlock's that a 'young male person' (and really, who did Mycroft think he was protecting when the identity of said young male person was ridiculously obvious) had allowed compromising photos to be taken and used as leverage against the Royal Family? He'd much rather be back at his flat on Baker Street solving the death of the dead hiker even if the case wasn't any higher than a six.           

“He doesn't want money.”           

Sherlock hated himself for stopping, was already berating himself as he turned to look at his brother. With a subtle shift of his head, he implored Mycroft to continue and tried to ignore his brother's gloating smirk.           

“He got in touch yesterday, informed us that the photographs exist, and claimed that he had no intention of extorting money or favour.”           

' _A power play against the most powerful family in Britain. Idiotic!_ ' Sherlock thought. ' _And dangerous..._ '           

“Interesting,” he said, more to himself than to the others in the room. “Where is he?”           

“You'll help, then?” Equerry asked, relief edging the tone of his voice.           

“Text me the details. I'll be in touch by the end of the day.”           

“So quickly? Do you really think you'll have news by then?”           

“No, Mr Equerry. I think I'll have the photographs.”           

And with that bold declaration Sherlock took his leave of Buckingham Palace, his Belstaff billowing behind him like a cape, a new (and interesting!) case crowding his mind, and a stolen ashtray (souvenir) hidden perfectly inside the pocket of his trousers.           

Putting clothes on, it seemed, did have some benefits. 

* * *

In a townhouse in Belgravia there were two bedrooms.           

One, Mike Stamford liked to call the Barracks.           

Inside, there were three gilded framed mirrors on the ceiling, each reflective surface offering a teasing new angle to the room. The walls were draped in a deep forest green wallpaper, dark wood sconces and crown moulding polished to a perfect sheen. Dotting the space were coat racks and cushioned chairs laden with leather straps, riding crops, silk ropes, blindfolds, feathers, and Venetian masks. There was a wardrobe filled to bursting with all manner of costumes, and a special locked cupboard that housed multi-coloured dildos, vibrators, beads, plugs, restraints, and other naughty toys. A four poster bed swathed in black satin sheets and curtains of cream gauze dominated the centre of the room, pillows piled high up along the headboard with a side table to the left which housed three different brands and six different sizes of condom.           

Across the hall from this chamber of carnal indulgence, was John Watson's bedroom.           

Compared to the Barracks, this room – with its printed thistle wallpaper, burgundy area rug, utilitarian desk, oak wardrobe, twin bed with crisp hospital corners and afghan knitted by his Gran when he'd gone off to uni, a second hand recliner near the small brick fireplace, and wide, wall spanning bookshelf filled with an impressive collection of medical texts and detective novels – was practically Victorian.           

When he'd asked Mike to work for him as his assistant (and how could Mike have said no when the pay check was thrice as much as he made teaching at St. Bart's) John had explained the necessity of the two bedrooms. The Barracks was The Soldier's playground, the place where he indulged in all of his – and his clients' – dark, lascivious fantasies. But just like any other person, John needed a place that separated him from his work, one that reminded him that he was more than his chosen occupation and, most importantly, a place where he felt safe. And even though John Watson's sexual appetite crossed the borderline of adventurous and kinky, the man himself really was as simple as any other bloke.           

“Have you decided what you're going to wear?” Mike asked, leaning a rotund hip against John's desk.           

“I was thinking my body armour,” John answered, scrutinizing his reflection, taking stock of the new lines making tracks under his eyes.           

It was disconcerting to notice how much he had aged since coming back from Afghanistan. Normality had given John more grey hairs than the desert ever had, but at least his current lifestyle allowed him to flirt with danger from time to time, enough that his psychosomatic limp was all but gone most days. While the sex trade was definitely not what John had foreseen for himself (as both a doctor and an honourably discharged army captain) it was the only occupation he'd been able to find that left him feeling gloriously alive. The thrill of sex and sensuality set his blood on fire, sating a gnawing emptiness that had hounded John in his nightmares, the ones his ex-therapist had said were a result of post-traumatic stress disorder.           

There hadn't been any nightmares after John became The Soldier.           

Less stress as well, although the deeper wrinkles etched on his brow were most certainly the result of the last month and the mess he was in. 

“Sure that's a wise decision?” Mike asked.           

“Why?” John wondered, catching Mike's gaze in the mirror.           

“I met Sherlock Holmes, back at Bart's before you recruited me. He does this trick where he looks at you and knows everything about you.” 

“I know. I read his website,” John answered. He smiled to himself, remembering the frank and precise explanation of the science of deduction, as well as the insultingly blunt responses to comments Mr Holmes had published on his forum. He'd stayed up most of the night going through the tobacco ash index, thinking the world's self-proclaimed only consulting detective was absolutely mad.           

And brilliant.           

And interesting.           

And a bit dangerous.           

John had read the website in preparation of this afternoon, knowing that as soon as he had sent his message to the Royal Family that Mycroft Holmes would enlist the aid of his eccentric but clever younger brother to reclaim the incriminating photographs quickly, if not discreetly. That's what John's anonymous employer had told him.   

It was this same anonymous employer who had sent John pictures of Sherlock Holmes being escorted from his flat on Baker Street earlier that morning, draped only in a sheet like some Greek philosopher. John had perused the pictures on his phone with a hungry curiosity, taking in the features and physique of Sherlock Holmes like he was an exhibit at the British Museum. He was a bit younger than John had imagined, and he could stand to gain a few pounds, not to mention some sunlight, his pale skin made much starker by the black bush of curls that framed his long, angular face. Then there were his eyes, two almond shaped aquamarine oceans that cradled colours John was sure weren't possible for an iris to possess. 

Exotic, he had decided, which only served to make him even more fascinated by the man.           

“He isn't easily impressed,” Mike warned.           

John's smile grew. He always did love a challenge.           

“That's why I think it'll be better for the both of us to be comfortable when we finally meet. Which should be,” he looked at his watch, “very soon. You'll want to be near the front door, Mike.”           

“Alright. Good luck, mate,” the other man said, patting his employer fondly on the shoulder before leaving.           

John waited until he was alone before taking his mobile from his desk and scanning through the pictures of Sherlock Holmes one more time.

He really was looking forward to finally meeting the world’s only consulting detective.


	2. The Problem with a Disguise

“I'm sorry to hear what happened,” a concerned voice called from just outside the front room. Sherlock instantly slouched his posture, lazing in the soft leather chesterfield as he cradled a handkerchief to his bleeding temple while the assistant (Mike Stamford, past acquaintance, former professor at Bart's and now colleague of The Soldier...unexpected) hunted down a first aid kit from the kitchen. “What did you say your name was?” 

“Oh, I'm sorry, I'm...”           

Sherlock's carefully crafted alias slipped away from his mind as a man entered the room.           

He was shorter than Sherlock had suspected, at least two inches less than the national average. And his face, open and unassuming, was just so disappointingly normal. For an infamous sex worker, Sherlock had expected something a little more aesthetic of The Soldier, if not in the traditional sense then surely something much more interesting than a thirty-seven year old man with standard features, bit of a wide nose, thin lips, dark blond stubble, and laugh lines.           

His eyes were the same as they had been in the photographs, though – two penetrating blue pools that glistened with currents of unspoken thrills, dark promises, and hints of danger – so that counted for something in the The Soldier’s favour. 

Of course, that one allure was upset completely by the ridiculous beige jumper the man was wearing. The cable knit disaster did nothing for The Soldier's physique, and made him look frumpy when paired with dark, weathered jeans and Loake boots. He looked so simple, so old fashioned, so...normal. It was rather disconcerting.           

Sherlock had expected The Soldier to greet him in some sort of complicated leather and latex garb, or even completely starkers, just to get a shock out of his unexpected guest. He hadn't once suspected that John Watson would bother to meet him wearing one of the ugliest jumpers Sherlock had ever seen, offending every sense he had.  He hoped that the sheep whose wool had been used in creating the oatmeal monstrosity had been some family's hearty Sunday dinner.           

“Hmm, it's always hard to remember an alias when you've had a bit of a surprise, isn't it?” The Soldier commented easily as he closed the door and stepped closer. He sat down on the coffee table opposite Sherlock, placing the first aid kit he'd been holding on his lap and licking his lips as he examined his guest's face. “I don't think this,” and as he spoke he reached over and gently pulled the white, clerical strip from Sherlock's collar, “is really necessary. Wouldn't you agree, Mr Holmes?”           

“John Watson,” Sherlock greeted in his coolest tone.           

John smiled. It was charming, genuine, and it made the blue of his eyes dance. Sherlock suddenly felt his throat go dry.           

“Let's have a look at that, shall we?” John coaxed, reaching for Sherlock's hand, his short, warm fingers wrapping around his wrist and urging it away from his temple so he could see the cut that was still bleeding along Sherlock's face. “Now who on earth did you get to do this?” he tutted, examining the head wound with clinical concentration. “Lucky they avoided your nose and teeth, at least. Be a shame if a face like yours got smashed up.”           

 John took his time tending Sherlock's wound, staunching the steady trickle of blood before cleaning it and dabbing the cut with rubbing alcohol. Although it stung, Sherlock didn't flinch, keeping his focus trained on the surprising man sitting in front of him. John worked with gentle but competent hands, letting the silence ensconce them with surprising comfort. It was almost cosy, and the very idea absolutely baffled the consulting detective which caused a brief sting of panic to ignite his nervous system.           

Surely he wasn't being outdone by such a simple man, a sex worker with deplorable taste in jumpers?!           

No, no. That was impossible.           

Quickly, Sherlock looked over John Watson, taking in all he could with a glance that lasted all of six seconds.

 _'Easy movements, nails neat and clipped, hands freshly washed with disinfectant soap, signs of muscle memory as he treats a wound – medical man, doctor definitely, most likely surgeon. He holds himself tall, despite his stature, clear upper-body strength, gun tucked in the waistband of his trousers and hidden under jumper, combined with his unimaginative working name – military background then, most likely his original career. So, army doctor. But why did he – oh, obvious. Clearly left handed, but favouring his right side. Left shoulder moves stiffly and fingers tremble slightly. Scar from the photograph was a bullet wound. Shot in the left shoulder and sustained nerve damage. Can no longer work as a surgeon. Discharged then, and became a sex worker to supplement his army pension.'_            

“Should I call for tea?” John asked, shuffling through the first aid kit for an antibiotic cream.           

“I had some at the palace,” Sherlock answered.           

“I know. Can't say I've had the pleasure myself. Was it nice there?” Sherlock didn't know how to process this practised bedside manner, so he didn't answer. John didn't seem to mind, though, because he continued to smile while he treated Sherlock's head. “If I had been invited along, I would have spent the whole time tempted to steal an ashtray.”           

“I did.”           

“Really? I'd like to see that sometime.”           

“How long ago were you shot?” Sherlock asked, attempting to regain control of the conversation. The question did give John a bit of a start, his hand stilling as he’d been applying a plaster to Sherlock’s cut. But the moment didn’t last long, and John chuckled gently as his thumb caressed the covered wound at Sherlock’s temple, blunt fingertips barely grazing his dark curls.           

“Never mind that,” he answered congenially, pulling away from Sherlock and relaxing into a comfortable posture on the coffee table. “We've got better things to talk about. Now tell me, how was it done?”           

That took Sherlock by surprise.

“What?” he replied, brows knotting in confusion. He was never confused. How had The Soldier – how had John Watson – confused _him_?           

“The hiker with the bashed-in head. How was he killed?” 

“How did you know...” Sherlock trailed, his storm-grey eyes scanning John's face with rapid-fire intensity, searching for the man's tells, his ticks, the secrets he didn't know he was exposing by the slant of his right eyebrow, or the bags under his eyes, or the teeth gnawing at his lower lip, or the length of his stubble.           

“I know one of the officers,” John answered. “Well, I know what she _likes_.” He winked at Sherlock then, a clear invitation to join the legions of people John Watson 'knew'.           

“ThatsnotwhyI...”           

An unfamiliar flush painted Sherlock's ears. He never fumbled his words, even when he was caught in the throes of a magnificent deduction and his mind worked quicker than his tongue he always spoke with acuity and competence. Ignoring his slipup, and resentfully grateful that John Watson did as well, Sherlock restructured his thoughts, cleared his throat, and spoke again.           

“That's not why I'm here.” 

“No. You’re here for the photographs, but I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.” 

“Isn’t it?” 

John shook his head and smiled almost apologetically, but the excited twinkle in his eyes betrayed the fun he was having chatting with the detective. 

 _'Cheeky_ ,' Sherlock thought, the corner of his mouth quirking in a half contained smirk. 

“Tell me the combination to the safe you’ve locked the photographs in and I’ll tell you how the hiker died,” he offered, knowing the exchange was completely unfair but finding himself enjoying the game that John had started. 

“What makes you so certain I’ve locked them away?” John retaliated. “How do you know I’ve not stashed them in a lockbox in Switzerland or buried them in my neighbour’s garden?” 

“The same way I know you’re a discharged army doctor with a bullet wound in your left shoulder,” Sherlock claimed. 

“You could have been told that by your brother. He would have access to my military records,” John teased, and the very notion that Mycroft had helped him made Sherlock bristle with offense, much to John’s amusement. “You could have deduced about my scar from the pictures on the website. Did you look at them, Mr Holmes? Did you like them?” 

 _'Is…he's flirting with me,_ ’ Sherlock realized, a giddy panic making his stomach feel like a hive of bees had nestled in his body. 

He’d been flirted with before, by officers on Lestrade’s team, by reporters, by members of his Homeless Network, by his brother’s string of PAs, by anonymous buffoons on his website, by Molly, even one time by a very charming serial killer he’d considered allowing to go free even after she’d tried to garrotte him. Sherlock wasn’t a stranger to attraction, or to the fact that many people found his looks, if not his personality, alluring. Still, no matter how many admirers he accumulated through no effort on his part, Sherlock had never returned any inclination of affection. But now, with John Watson sitting across from him with an eager smile and clear interest showing in every line on his face, it felt different. 

Sherlock wondered if perhaps, maybe, there was miniscule possibility that the swarm buzzing in his abdomen was, perchance, flattery. 

It was mortifying, whatever it was, but oh God, it was the most intoxicating rush Sherlock had experienced sober in years. He wanted to keep it and push it away at the same time, wanted to do the same to John, and entertained the idea, just for half a second, of what would happen if he reached out and pulled the man to him. But the notion was too ridiculous, too beyond what Sherlock knew himself capable of, to dwell upon. Instead, the consulting detective played his best trick. 

“You have trust issues,” he declared, pleased when the teasing smile fell from John’s face, replaced with a sombre, stonier expression. 

Prodding his opponent’s weakness was a cruel art that Sherlock had mastered, and one that always yielded the results he wanted. What better way to protect your own armour than by finding the chink in someone else’s and digging out a gaping wound? Rather than retaliate, one’s adversary would inevitably focus their efforts on protecting their injury, leaving themselves vulnerable for strike after strike. 

In that regard, John Watson was no different than all the rest. 

“You’re a prolific sex worker yet you only have one employee on site,” Sherlock continued when John failed to reply. “It could be because of your select clientele, but discretion is hardly your main priority if you’re taking incriminating photographs of yourself and your lovers. So it’s not for their sake, but for your own. This house is immaculately clean, but there is no full-time maid, or butler, just Mike Stamford, a former professor at St. Bart’s whose own hygiene habits are questionable, never mind his ability to do the washing. You hire a cleaning service, then. Judging by the impressive sheen of the floor,” and Sherlock narrowed his eyes to the dark wood beneath his feet, “I’d say you have a maid come round every three days, but it’s never the same maid twice. Your coffee table’s not been replaced to its exact spot after the polishing was done, you can tell by the little scuffs on the floor, not a mistake regular help would make.” 

“You’ve deduced I’ve trust issues because of a coffee table and my cleaning service?” John asked, crossing his arms as his spine straightened, standing up to Sherlock’s intimidatingly impressive intelligence.

"No. I could have deduced your particular psychosis simply from the fact that you have a gun in your trousers," Sherlock stated, making John shift a tad as the cool, comforting texture of familiar metal against the bare skin of his back suddenly felt like a burning brand.

"Could be I'm just happy to see you," John joked, attempting to level the playing field.

When the consulting detective stared blankly back at him, not hint of humour in his storm grey eyes, only the dim twinkle of confusion, John's lackluster grin thinned into a pursed, serious line. The set of his jaw betrayed the anger that was starting to swell within him - nothing Sherlock hadn't seen before in light of his brilliant deductions and a rather boring defense taken up by the idiots who refused to appreciate his brilliance - but John's dialated pupils suggested that he was aroused by Sherlock's deductions just as much as he was appalled by them.

This was new. Interesting. Fun.

And it encouraged Sherlock to keep going.  

“It wasn't just the cleaners, or the coffee table, or even the gun. It was Mike Stamford. I met him at Bart’s a few years ago. Dreadful teacher, barely passable doctor. You’re a doctor, too. Mike resigned his post at the hospital just over ten months ago, but why? He made a good wage as a professor, so if he’d received a better offer it would have to be for a much more lucrative paycheck. But the sex industry is so fickle and can be dangerous. Mike is not a man who takes risks so there had to be another incentive. An old friend, perhaps, recruiting him for the job.” 

And with a soft, humming little sigh, John Watson betrayed the truth of Sherlock’s deduction. 

“You and Mike Stamford attended medical school together. When you were discharged from the army you created The Soldier as a means of augmenting your income – military pensions are insultingly paltry, especially for the price of London – but you needed someone to assist you once your clientele began extending to the peerage. Yet despite the numerous competent executive PAs and personal secretaries London has to offer, all of which you could have insisted sign binding confidentiality contracts, assuring your privacy was legally protected, you sought out your old school chum, a doctor and a teacher with no professional skills in either the sex industry or filing. Only a person with serious trust issues would go to that much trouble to keep his secrets safe. Which is why I know that those photographs are here, in this house.”           

“Oh?” John said, being rather adorably defiant. 

“You’ve locked them away.” 

“So you said.” 

“Mm. Not in here, though. You’re not so arrogant to leave them dangling directly under my nose. Somewhere you feel safe, then, somewhere you feel you have absolute control…your bedroom.” 

Silence ensconced the two men, thick like honey, and the adrenaline that coiled through their bodies left them both as tense as a compressed spring. 

“Right…right,” John said, blue eyes trained on Sherlock as he licked his upper lip. Sherlock followed the movement like a hawk following a rabbit. “Well done, you.” 

The fingers of John’s left hand had started taping against his elbow, an obvious tell that he was at a loss of what to do next. Sherlock waited, eager and very curious as to what John Watson’s next move would be. The anticipation made the swarm in his stomach vibrate and his palms itch. Watching John Watson strategize was like looking at the best crime scene in London. 

“You still don’t know the combination.” 

It was an undisguised challenge, a dare on the playground, and Sherlock accepted with all of his usual conceited grace. 

“Of course I do,” he said, pomp and pride alighting his features like a halo. 

“No, you don’t,” John ribbed, finding the fun of the game again after he’d been so incredibly deconstructed. It was intoxicating to be the pinpoint of the mad detective’s focus, the rush just as sweet as the adrenaline he’d found in the desert and in the bedroom. 

“You haven’t told me in so many words, John, but you’ve given yourself away all the same,” Sherlock said, watching, pleased when John’s bravado slipped for just a moment. “I know the combination.” 

He made the declaration as if it was solid fact, one of the many thousands that only he saw and understood. Another successful deduction, another victory for Sherlock Holmes. Although he was certain he had cracked The Soldier’s defences, John Watson kept up a very strong and determined façade. He wasn’t intimidated by Sherlock’s conviction. In fact, he seemed to be enamoured of the detective’s confidence. That, or he wanted to punch the man in the face. Either way, it made Sherlock want to pull up the collar of his Belstaff so that the dark, crisp wool would complement his angular features, making him look all the more impressive and dashing, like a pirate. 

Did John like pirates? 

Before Sherlock could deduce the fanciful question, the sitting room door burst open, an explosion into their cosy cocoon. The wood cracked like a stormy explosion and splinters sliced into the room like one hundred tiny needles. John moved immediately, his body as graceful as a dancer’s as he reached across the space between him and Sherlock and covered him as a mother would shield her child, arms about his head, his broad, solid chest curving in front of the younger man to protect him from whatever danger was about to walk through the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, oh dear. How will Sherlock and John get out of this one?  
> I'll give you a hint. John's a BAMF!  
> Hope you enjoyed the story so far.  
> Cheers!


	3. The Soldier

Two giants, both clad in black suits and toting guns, stomped into the room, the tallest of the pair dragging Mike Stamford by the collar and hefting him to the far side of the couch. Mike dropped to his knees like a stone, his cheeks magenta and eyes bulging as he gasped for breath.                                 

“Sorry, John,” he wheezed as the man who’d dragged him tugged on his collar, holding Mike inert whilst aiming his pistol at the man’s head. Enraged, John scowled at their attackers, body still defensively shielding Sherlock as he made to reach behind his back. 

“Hands behind your head, Doctor Watson,” the other man, with his big teeth and vicious sneer, commanded. “And I strongly suggest _not_ reaching for your gun.” 

Cementing his threat, the man made a show of releasing the safety on his weapon, the sound nearly as deafening as a gunshot to John’s adrenaline saturated senses. Keeping his focus on the man in charge, John moved his arms slowly up to his head, clasping them with grave finality to the back of his skull. Smirking, the stranger smoothly divested John of his gun, casting his partner an understanding look. 

Sherlock watched the exchange between the aggressive intruders, noting their well-practiced synchronization and non-verbal exchange. It gave away everything important that he needed to know. 

‘ _Professionals. Worked together for many years. Ten at the least. American by the accent. CIA, obviously. Earpiece suggests others in the house. Three?_ ’ 

“Doctor Watson, on the floor.” 

“Don’t you want me on the floor, too?” Sherlock asked. 

“No, Mr Holmes, I want you to open the safe.” 

“And why would the American government care about a bunch of photographs of British royalty being spanked by an ex-army doctor…” Sherlock began, sharp grey-storm gaze falling onto John who stared right back, his silent confessions filling the air in-between. “Unless it’s more than photographs.” 

“The safe, Mr. Holmes.” 

“He doesn’t kn—” 

John’s protest was cut off with a firm tapping on his temple from the barrel of the gun that was now held against his head. The unmistakable threat against John was incredibly distressing to Sherlock, more so even than the fact that he was bothered by the fate of the man at all. He felt a great, prickly fist clench low in his stomach, the bizarre cramp causing his breath to catch, his palms to sweat. 

“He’s right, I don’t know the combination,” Sherlock admitted, keeping the man’s attention on him. 

“You said you did. We were listening in.” 

“If you were then you’d know he never told me what it was.” 

“From your reputation Mr. Holmes, I’m assuming you’ve been able to pick up something we’ve missed. I’ve got the rest of my men in Dr. Watson’s bedroom as we speak, waiting for the information we need. Now,” and with a menacing finality, the man moved his gun from John’s temple and levelled it at Sherlock, “the combination.” 

What transpired next moved with such rapid velocity, it could give one of Sherlock Holmes’ famous deductions a run for its money on speed and precision. As soon as the gun was no longer aimed at him and instead trained on the heart of the world’s only consulting detective, John Watson took decisive and aggressive control. 

“Vatican cameos!” he cried, disrupting the showdown between the detective and the surly CIA agent. Startled, Sherlock looked back at John, watching the scene unfold before him as if in slow motion, taking in every detail, every nuance, every speck, and storing it away in his Mind Palace for future cataloguing. 

John’s battle cry, it seemed, was a code. As soon as he’d hollered it into the room, Mike Stamford dropped onto his belly, his dead weight surprising the agent who was holding him, causing him to get dragged down to his knees. While that was happening, John moved with the swift delicacy of a man not just hardened by battle, but who thrived in it. Without a single tremor in his left hand, John reached up and forward, gripping the wrist of the agent who had just been threatening Sherlock. Using his diminutive height to its full advantage, John slipped under the agent’s arm, continued to keep a steely hold on the man’s wrist, and took control of the gun. 

He shot Mike’s assailant, first in the hand holding his weapon, which resulted in him crying out and dropping his firearm directly onto Mike’s back, and then again in the right shoulder, which got the man to fall back, inert and harmless. Mike moved to action then, wincing and whinging as he rolled over, took possession the gun that he complained would leave a nasty bruise between his shoulder blades, and aimed it at the felled goon. 

As for the CIA agent who John was tackling with, the ex-army doctor pressed his back against the man’s wide chest, adrenaline giving him the extra boost of strength he needed to push the man against the wall before slamming his head back into his face, knocking him out. Sherlock knew he would never forget the smug, satisfied look on John’s face at the sound of their attacker’s nose breaking and his limp, sleeping body falling in a crumpled heap onto the floor. 

It was like watching the most perfect ballet. 

Still brandishing the agent’s gun, John deftly checked the chamber to see how many rounds he had, before picking up his own Browning. He walked towards Mike, took the gun away from his PA and then checked on the health of the man he had wounded. The agent had knocked himself out when he’d fallen, but he was breathing and his pulse, though rapid, was strong. John grabbed a very expensive cashmere throw blanket off of a nearby chaise longue and used it to staunch the blood from the injury on the man’s shoulder, instructing Mike to keep firm pressure on the seeping wound. Once he was satisfied that the man would live, John finally turned to address Sherlock, asking him something that the consulting detective couldn’t hear above the primal, exultant drumming beat of his own heart echoing in his ears.  

Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off the man. 

John Watson was astounding! A complete contradiction of protection and danger. A legendary berserker wrapped up in an ugly, cuddly jumper. A soldier and a doctor all in one. He was the most impossible, the most improbable… 

‘ _Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,_ ’ a voice, not unlike Mycroft’s, echoed in the halls of Sherlock’s mind. He wished his brother would go and meddle in someone else’s subconscious. 

“Mr. Holmes?” John called again, shaking Sherlock out of his thoughts. He was standing to Sherlock’s left, a hand on his shoulder, warm and steady and fingers probably covered in gunpowder burns. The thought made Sherlock lick his lips, and he took a single second to imagine what John might do if he traced his tongue along one of those blunt fingers. Would his eyes go dark, pupils dilating until there was nothing left of his iris but a ring of rich cornflower? Would his breath hitch? Would he tighten his grip at Sherlock’s shoulder? Would he say his name? 

“Are you alright, Mr. Holmes?” John insisted, to which Sherlock finally managed a small nod. 

“We should call the police,” Mike said. 

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, abandoning his ill-timed fantasy so that he could focus on the matter at hand. Reaching for one of the abandoned guns he headed towards a window. 

“He said there were more upstairs. And they’ll have others watching the building,” John stated. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock answered with not a hint of interest as he opened the window and fired the gun several times into the air, surprising his companions. 

“For God’s sake!” John hollered. 

“Oh shut up, it’s quicker,” Sherlock drolled before strolling out of the room, John at his heels. 

“Where are you going?” 

“Upstairs.” 

“Upstairs?” 

“Your bedroom specifically.” 

He had already dashed up a few steps before John reached out and grabbed the end of his dark coat and tugged, stalling his assent. 

“My bedroom?” John echoed. 

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, disappointed in John’s slowness and in himself for finding the way John’s lips curved up in an exasperated grin to be just marginally more interesting than a crime scene…but only a five…definitely no more than a six. 

“Listen, any other time, hell, any other day, Mr. Holmes, I would love to invite up to my bedroom. But you do realize that there are CIA agents up there, with guns. It’s dangerous.”

“So?” Sherlock asked, shrugging. “I’ve dealt with worse than a few trigger-happy Americans.” 

“ _Trained_ trigger-happy Americans,” John stressed. 

“Even so. The violence, the danger, I’ve seen quite a lot. You have too, ex-army doctor that you are.” 

“Yes, I have,” John conceded. “Far too much, really. Enough to last more than one lifetime.” 

Sherlock took a few steps closer to John, his scrutinizing gaze unforgivable as it appraised The Soldier, taking in the stiffness of John’s spine, the solid and steady readiness of his left hand, even the twitching of a half hard cock filling in the groin of his trousers. The deductions made from this observation were elementary. 

Leaning close Sherlock practically purred his question against the shell of John’s ear. “Want to see some more?” 

And really, there was no other answer that John could give. 

“Oh God, yes!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! That took much longer to write than I'd anticipated, and there's still more to come.
> 
> It was exciting though, wasn't it?
> 
> Anyway, I do hope you enjoyed the latest chapter and that you'll be returning as I add more to this story. Please remember that I have not had this fic Brit-picked and have done my best, but should you find any errors, let me know and I will correct them. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	4. Trust Issues

Like two schoolboys skiving classes, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson raced up the stairs, smiles on their faces and exuberant, combustible energy seeping out of their pores as they plunged recklessly forwards into an unknown and unpredictable situation.                         

Of course, they should have predicted that the other CIA operatives (three in total) were already waiting for them, and Sherlock berated himself severely for not making the connection earlier. 

‘ _Stupid! Stupid!_ ’ he chastised himself as he crouched around a corner while John did his best to defend them, firing his own shots in an effort to keep their enemies at bay. ‘ _The others had earpieces. Clearly the rest of their unit heard everything in the sitting room and were ready for us. You would have noticed that if you hadn’t been mooning over…if you hadn’t been distracted._ ’ 

“This is idiotic!” Sherlock howled, losing his temper at the entire situation. Huffing, he peered around John so he could address the trio of Neanderthals who were firing on them from the security of what must have been John’s bedroom. “If you kill us then you’ll _never_ get the combination! Did you think of that?!” 

The gunfire stopped immediately, but before Sherlock could congratulate himself on getting the case back on track, John shot one of the CIA operatives in the knee, surprising the others. While the two standing agents turned their attention to their fallen colleague, John fisted his hand in Sherlock’s coat and all but dragged the lanky younger man into the room directly opposite from their assailants. 

“Get the wardrobe,” he commanded, locking the door. “It’ll buy us a bit of time, but not much.” 

“We need to get to your bedroom,” Sherlock insisted as he pushed the heavy cupboard over to the door.

“Welcome,” John panted, spreading his arm out in a sweeping gesture. Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he made a cursory perusal of the room. Like John himself, the room was clean, orderly, cosy, nothing at all like the dungeon of lascivious debauchery Sherlock had deduced. He couldn’t imagine John ‘entertaining’ his clientele in this frankly boring bedroom, so that left only one conclusion. 

“Two rooms…” he realized, awe and admiration and something else he refused to name or acknowledge swelling within his chest. 

“Trust issues, remember?” John snorted. 

“Clever,” Sherlock countered, looking away before he could notice the fetching blush that crept up the other man’s neck. He continued to take in his new surroundings, completely ignoring the sound of something heavy dragging across the floor. 

“A little help?” John grunted. 

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, distracted as he picked the room apart, seeking every clue his greedy gaze could find to help him unravel the mystery of John Watson.

“Ta,” John snorted back and continued on his own. He was trying to push the bed against the wardrobe, most likely to add more weight to the barrier and to create another obstacle for the CIA agents once they shot the lock of the door, which sounded like they had a few seconds ago. “It won’t hold for long. We need to get out of here.” 

Sherlock wasn’t listening to John. His focus was otherwise engaged with the long bookshelf that was near to bursting with an array of literature. Most of the tomes were medical texts and periodicals (John is very attached to his nurturing nature), and there was the odd erotic novel thrown in (Leisure reading? Research?), but what really caught his interest was the series of paperback detective novels that made a nice line along a single shelf. The spines of the books were creased and stained. So, very well loved then. Some were recent best sellers, but many were aged and a few were almost three decades old if one took notice of the binding. 

So, The Soldier fancied detective stories. That alone was incredibly interesting, but it was an observation that would have to be deduced another day. There was something far more pressing and important about the row of novels, something that related to the immediate situation. 

They weren’t sitting right in the shelf. 

The novels were not flush against the back of the shelf. They jutted out, as if there was something hidden behind them. With only the barest hint of care (John DID value these silly stories) Sherlock pulled several of the books off the shelf and discovered what he’d deduced they were camouflaging. 

A standard Sentry brand personal safe with a keypad combination. 

‘ _Tsk, tsk, John. Too simple. You disappoint me._ ’ 

Now that he’d discovered the safe, all Sherlock had to do was enter the code and retrieve the scandalous photographs. Sherlock contemplated the keypad, his genius mind running through all manner of numerical possibilities. He’d been bluffing, of course, when he’d boldly announced to John that he knew the combination. To be fair, though, while he might not have known the combination _at the time_ , Sherlock was confident that he could determine what the code was if he only had a bit of time to reason it out. 

He focused on John. 

Doctor Watson. 

The Soldier. 

The man who looked like an unobtrusive, boring, stay-at-home father, but who harboured an addiction to danger and lived a life ripe with sexual adventure. A man who had two bedrooms, one that catered to the darker, lascivious, risk-taking side of his personality, and another that was quaint, peaceful, where he felt safe. A gentle shell protecting the tougher interior. 

If the bedroom represented John’s outer shell, then the safe, which Sherlock knew housed the illicit photographs, was a physical representation of John’s true inclinations. But what sequence of numbers would John use? The contact number for his services? The amount of partners he’d had? A special date? It would be something uncomplicated, something John was familiar with, but also something otherwise overlooked by most. What number would The Soldier use to protect his secrets? 

“Of course,” Sherlock sighed, eyes alighting with an answer he praised for its simplicity and cunning. Confidently, he tapped six numbers into the keypad and did not hide his pleased expression when the tell-tale click of the safe unlocking reached his ears. 

“We can escape down the drain pipe from the en suite. I hope you’re in for a – SHERLOCK!” 

John’s horrified holler did not halt Sherlock opening the safe. So, John charged at the man, throwing his full weight against Sherlock, his arms wrapping around the man’s lean middle and tumbling them both down to the floor. John’s weight on Sherlock was warm, heavy but not uncomfortable save for his wriggling. The wind had been knocked out of him but Sherlock could hardly find it within himself to care, not when John’s cheek was pressed over his heart and his arms snug around his middle. Having struck his head against the floor, Sherlock excused his momentary dizziness on a possible concussion and denied that it might have anything to do with strong, sturdy body pressing down on his, the tickle of John’s grey-blond hair against his jaw, the spicy tang of aftershave titillating the air around him, the echo of his name being said for the first time in John’s voice. 

The world shifted, half a dream and half a reality as John moved off of Sherlock and helped the consulting detective to sit up. Flipping errant curls out of his eyes, Sherlock looked at the safe and saw the gun that had been booby-trapped inside to shoot the fool who dared raid its treasure. It was a very clever precaution. Sherlock looked back at John like he was a devastatingly attractive mad scientist, something to be feared just as much as he was to be admired and adored. 

“Trust issues,” John grumbled, unable to read the wide, sparkling energy in Sherlock’s eyes. Grunting, he shuffled towards the safe. Sherlock was quicker, though, and bumped John aside to grab at the blackmail that was the cause of so much trouble and possibly an international incident. 

It was a laptop. 

Not a very expensive one, and at least three years old. It was as unassuming as its owner, but like him, it held inside of it many things of titillating and dangerous quality. When it came to Dr. John Watson, it was never wise to underestimate outer appearances. 

“Well, that’s the knighthood in the bag,” Sherlock gloated nonchalantly, tucking the laptop under one arm and striding towards the en suite. The bullet from the booby-trapped gun was lodged in the wall near the door and seemed to have enraged their pursuers, resulting in them doubling their efforts to enter the room. The wardrobe and bed were slowly being forced out of the way of the door, and the sound of police sirens were getting louder by the moment. There wasn’t any time to waste. 

“Excuse me, that’s mine,” John called after Sherlock, following him into the en suite and locking the door. The detective wasn’t listening, one leg already out the window and finding a foothold on the drainpipe. “Excuse me. Listen!” John snapped, grabbing Sherlock’s arm. “That laptop is my life, Mr. Holmes, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you take it.” The threat was heated, powerful. 

‘ _He’s serious,_ ’ Sherlock realized, taking in the firm set of John’s jaw, the cramped, deep gully of his brow, the cold determination in his eyes. This was the face of a man who had seen war, who fought in the heart of hot battle and walked away, scarred and forever changed by the horrors of the desert. This was not a man to be trifled with. 

Without even realizing he’d been doing it, Sherlock leaned in. His face came closer to John’s, lips parting, his mind abuzz with all number of deductions of what John would kiss like, how dry his lips would be, how his upper lip would taste of salt and his spicy aftershave, how his tongue would be hot, slick, naughty, and so wonderfully unpredictable. He was able to catch a hint of John’s breath (Twinings English Breakfast, two cups, strong, milk and sugar) before the sound of the wardrobe falling over alerted him to the proximity of their antagonists.

“Shall we, John?” he asked, pulling back and refusing to acknowledge that a kiss had almost happened, or that John had been leaning in, too, eyes closed, eyelashes fine and golden on his cheeks. 

Sherlock shimmied down the drainpipe with relatively little difficulty even with the laptop secured under his arm. His feet barely touched the pavement before John was beside him, and with only a grin and twitch of his head, the pair were off, running down the alley and then down another, twisting in and out of the labyrinth that was London’s streets. John followed Sherlock unquestioningly, believing the man with the dazzling mind must have every back road, dead end, and cul-de-sac memorized. John trusted Sherlock as if it were second nature to put one’s faith in a mad, beautiful stranger after only an hour’s acquaintance. 

They ran until the constant drone of police sirens were no longer echoing on the walls around them. Tucked along a nondescript wall out of sight of the main street, the companions rested, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. They breathed in tandem, taking large gulps of air to sate their burning lungs. Filled to bursting with adrenaline, Sherlock and John turned to one another, silently congratulating themselves on their narrow escape. Both men’s mouths were open, hard, laboured breaths rumbling between their lips, their eyes flush with excitement and dark with the thrill of having tickled danger and living to tell the tale. Sherlock found himself grinning, and John answered with one of his perfect smiles. 

And then they started to laugh. Great gulping, breathless giggles that shrouded them like cloaks, leaving the two gasping men as hysterical as little boys in the schoolyard who had just played a naughty prank. It felt so good to share a victory with someone and to laugh with them in celebration, that Sherlock immediately impressed the moment in his Mind Palace so he could look back at it in times when he needed cheering up. 

As their laughter waned, John leaned heavily against Sherlock’s side, his chin resting against the taller man’s shoulder. 

“Go on then,” John huffed, his breath damp on Sherlock’s neck. “The hiker. Tell me how he was killed. You said you would once you had the photographs.” He looked down at his laptop tucked under Sherlock’s arm. “It’s a fair trade. Besides, I know you want to.” 

And he really did want to. Sherlock smiled. 

“The position of the car relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire is what gave it all away. Not that difficult to put the pieces together.” 

“Oh really,” John answered, a fond exasperation in his voice. “Humour me. How was the hiker murdered?” 

“He wasn’t.” 

“But…he’s dead. Of course he was murdered.” 

“Would that every dead body meant there was an interesting murder to solve,” Sherlock lamented seriously. “Our dead hiker was a seasoned sportsman recently returned from foreign travel. He was in a field looking up at the sky, alone save for the driver of a car that backfired.” 

“And?” 

“What do you do when you hear a loud noise, John?” Sherlock asked. 

“I don’t know? Look at where the noise is coming from?” he shrugged. 

“Exactly!”  

“So the hiker looked back at the car when it backfired,” John concluded. 

“More importantly, he looked away from the sky at what he’d been focused on before the backfire distracted him. Now think, John. What did your officer acquaintance tell you about the cause of death?” 

“A blow to the back of the head with a blunt object.” 

“And what did I just tell you about the hiker’s background?” 

“That he was a sportsman returned from foreign travel….and he was watching something in the sky before the car backfired. Birds?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed, making John bristle. 

“Alright, not birds then,” he said as a means of appeasing the man beside him. “A blunt object, strike to the back of the head, he turned away from looking at something in the sky…a sportsman who had just got back from travel abroad…something in the sky…sports…but, that’s ridiculous. It’s impossible.” 

“Nothing is impossible, John.” 

“But the odds of it must be staggering!” John protested. 

“So you’ve solved it then?” Sherlock asked. 

“A boomerang. The hiker was struck with his own boomerang when he turned to look at the backfiring car.” 

“And it washed downstream before the police arrived, leaving no trace of a weapon,” Sherlock finished, pleased that John had put all of the clues together, even if it had taken him ages. When John didn’t speak, Sherlock regarded his companion, confused when he saw raw, undisguised adoration and arousal. 

“That…was amazing.” 

“Do you really think so?” Sherlock sighed, surprised that he had actually been worried about John’s reaction; whether he would think him a freak like most of New Scotland Yard or recognize his cleverness and praise him for it. 

“Of course,” John replied moving to stand in front of Sherlock, his plain, ordinary face beaming with honest amazement. It was one of the most beautiful things Sherlock had ever seen. “It was brilliant! You are…you’re brilliant.” 

As a child, Sherlock had fallen and cut his upper lip on Mummy’s favourite garden gnome. Although small, the cut was deep and had bled excessively. Before Mycroft had run from the garden and into the house to get their father, Sherlock’s chin and hands had been covered in blood. Though wet and sticky, what had caught Sherlock’s curiosity was how hot the blood was. Even when he was scooped up in his father’s arms, cradled in his lap while Mycroft held a flannel to his lip, Sherlock had stared at his hands, watching the blood trickle from his fingers, over his knuckles, down his wrists and towards the crook of his elbow, all the while fascinated with just how hot each red trail felt along his skin. 

He was feeling that familiar hot flowing now with John Watson pressed against his side, praising him with a sincerity as cutting as the clay gnome had been. Sherlock’s mind was awash with sensation, registering the thick tendrils of warmth he felt ebbing from his chest to all corners of his body, slipping around his organs and over his skin, seeping into his bones, his hair, his muscles, and into his brain. Sherlock wanted to analyse the strange unfurling warmth that touched everything inside of him, but the only conclusion he could draw on the spot was that the genesis of this exciting (terrifying), trickling fever was John Watson. 

And Sherlock Holmes was fascinated. 

The cut from so long ago had left a scar, and John Watson had just discovered it, having been staring raptly at Sherlock while the man in question had been silently trying to sort out his own mysteries. John liked looking at Sherlock, particularly the man’s unique face, and when he’d spotted the tiny blemish he couldn’t resist. He raised his hand to caress Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb tracing the small white line of skin at the corner of his mouth. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” he sighed, “you are the most amazing person I have ever met.” 

Sherlock did not flinch from the caress. He pressed his cheek more fully into the warm embrace of John’s palm, even wet his lips and teasingly tapped his tongue on John’s thumb, barely brushing the skin, just to see what his cohort might do. 

John groaned, but rather than retaliate, he pulled his hand away, resigned. 

“Which makes me hate to do this even more.” 

With the same speed and dexterity he had displayed in the sitting room of his townhouse, John pulled back and punched Sherlock, striking the same temple he’d so delicately mended an hour ago. Gobsmacked, Sherlock fell to the ground like a wet towel, slapping his side onto the unforgiving asphalt. He groaned and swore when John struck him again, his vision going spectacularly white before it came back to him in hazy, dizzying focus, the edges of the world around him quickly filling with encroaching darkness. 

He felt more than he saw John snatch the laptop from his loose grip. Sherlock looked up, John a blurry triplet that danced in circles before his eyes. He tried to reach for him, but the movement extracted too much coordination and his arm fell limply at his side. 

“I’m sorry,” John said as he stroked Sherlock’s hip in soothing circles. “I really am. I wish we could have met under different circumstances, Mr. Holmes. If our paths ever do cross again, let’s have breakfast.” 

And just like a rogue boomerang washed away downriver, John Watson was gone, not a single trace left behind as evidence of his existence save for a body on the ground. Sherlock wanted to take chase, tried again to lift himself and follow, but it was too much. He collapsed, his body limp as his brain fought a losing battle to remain awake. 

And as the crushing weight of unconsciousness beat Sherlock into submission, blackness wrapping around his mind like an inconvenient shock blanket, the detective’s last clear observation was that John Watson had, very purposely, avoided his nose and teeth.


	5. Caring is Not an Advantage

“You really _don’t_ have to stay the full twenty-four hours, Mycroft,” Sherlock said agitatedly as he flipped through his morning papers. 

“You have a concussion,” Mycroft answered, indifferent to his brother’s mood. He continued to scan the tablet he’d brought along to 221 B, checking his phone every minute or so for updates on whatever world problem needed his attention. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed. 

It had been a nightmare to wake up in the A&E with Mycroft’s hawkish face staring down at him. The trauma of the whole situation was magnified when the elder Holmes had announced he would be escorting Sherlock to his flat and staying with him for twenty-four hours on doctor’s orders. Clearly the so-called doctor – a Ms. Sawyer – was an imbecile. She’d said rest was the best cure for a concussion, but how was Sherlock expected to rest with his fat arse of a brother polluting all of the oxygen in the room? 

He hadn’t been able to get comfortable at all in the night knowing his brother was kipping in the spare bedroom, quite sure that he’d heard Mycroft sneaking into the kitchen several times, no doubt eating _all_ of the Jaffa cakes. The selfish bastard. 

“I’m alright!” Sherlock snapped, infuriated when all the answer Mycroft gave him was a sceptical frown that made him look just like Grandmère. “Mrs. Hudson can stand watch if you insist,” he offered desperately. 

“Sherlock, you know I’m only doing this because Mummy insisted. Would you rather she be here playing nursemaid instead? She wanted to, you know. I could just call –” 

“Don’t!” Sherlock demanded, the tiniest edge of a plea in his voice as he eyes lay transfixed on the fingers hovering over Mycroft’s phone. There was a moment’s stand-off between the brothers, and with a haughty sniff, Mycroft moved his attention back to his tablet, leaving the mobile untouched. Relaxing, Sherlock returned to his paper, and the flat was filled with a tense, but workable, silence. 

Mrs. Hudson eventually made her way upstairs with a plate of homemade biscuits which she placed on the table between the brothers before flitting about the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Mycroft stared at the biscuits with a rather pathetic longing and, as he was never one to miss an opportunity to torment his big brother, Sherlock scooped one up and held it to his nose. He took a luxuriously exaggerated sniff of the fresh pastry, as if it were the finest Bordeaux, before stuffing it into his mouth with all the manners of a toddler. 

“It would serve you right if I did call Mummy,” Mycroft said darkly, watching Sherlock lick his fingers. “You really were careless this time, Sherlock.” 

“The photographs are perfectly safe,” Sherlock scoffed, helping himself to another biscuit. 

“In the hands of a fugitive sex worker.” 

“He isn’t interested in blackmail.” 

“And he told you this?” 

“Not in so many words,” Sherlock muttered, lifting his paper so he could hide from Mycroft’s annoying glare. 

_That laptop is my life._  

Those had been John’s exact words, spoken with heavy conviction and an edge of distressed desperation. If the contents of the laptop meant so much to John, then blackmailing the Royal Family was most certainly the least of his schemes. No, there was most certainly something else to the whole affair. And since Mycroft was just sitting there being bothersome, he might as well be useful. 

“What else does he have?” Sherlock demanded. 

“Who?” Mycroft asked. 

“John Watson,” Sherlock said, the name tasting too right on his tongue. “It’s very odd isn’t it, Mycroft, that a man once dedicated to Queen and Country – a _doctor_ – would return invalid from war and suddenly turn against the ideals he vowed to uphold on the job and on the battlefield?”

“War changes people, Sherlock,” Mycroft offered in response, which only resulted in Sherlock glowering at him. Mycroft sighed heavily. “The therapist he had upon his return to London diagnosed your soldier –” 

“He isn’t _my_ anything!” Sherlock denied, scandalized by the very idea just as much as he was secretly thrilled by it. Of course, it would be a fate worse than Christmas dinner if Mycroft were to know anything about the crashing, conflicting, unfurling sentiment that heated Sherlock’s core. 

“He was diagnosed with post-traumatic-stress disorder,” Mycroft continued, one ginger brow raised condescendingly, as if to say ‘ _you couldn’t fool Anderson with that denial, brother dear, let alone me’_. 

“Wrong,” Sherlock snapped. 

“Indeed,” Mycroft smirked. “No, it would seem that John Watson doesn’t fear the war at all. He misses it, enough that he’ll take whatever reckless thrills suit his interests. If the sex trade hadn’t fed his adrenaline addiction first, he might have ended up dashing across London whilst chasing after you. God knows the danger you two would get yourselves in to.” 

“I…” Sherlock huffed indignantly, lips pursing, brows narrowing, and shoulders rearing back. “Did you know there were other people after The Soldier, too, before _you_ sent me in there? CIA trained _killers_ I believe,” he accused. 

“It’s a disgrace sending your little brother into danger like that,” Mrs. Hudson said as she joined the two men, clearing some of the clutter on the table. She glared at Mycroft much in the same way Mummy would when she was cross, and rubbed Sherlock’s shoulders with such matronly affection that it was just too much for the senior Holmes to bear. “Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, shut up.” 

“MYCROFT!” 

A tense, dangerous silence fell upon the small company in 221 B Baker Street, something far different than the usual prickly atmosphere that so often existed between the siblings. Sherlock was staring at Mycroft with a scandalous expression while Mrs. Hudson stood beside him simply offended. Contrite, Mycroft lowered his gaze, ashamed that he’d spoken so indelicately to a woman his brother clearly adored, and who cared for Sherlock as if he were her own son, something very, _very_ rare, on both counts. 

“Apologies,” Mycroft finally said, looking properly chastened. 

Sherlock glared at his brother – cataloguing Mycroft’s indiscretion in the massive library of his Mind Palace where he stored all of his brother’s missteps – for a long moment before the hardness at the corners of his eyes relaxed and he returned his attention to his newspaper. It was Sherlock’s way of forgiving Mycroft, but also his promise to never to forget. 

 “Thank you,” Mrs. Hudson said before turning back towards the kitchen. 

“Though do, in fact, shut up,” Sherlock muttered to his landlady as she continued to fuss and putter throughout his flat. 

**_Smartarse_**  

The mysterious voice that cut through the flat like a hot knife through butter gave the company immediate pause. It was a man’s voice, even timbre, somewhat chiding, yet affection in tone, the way a one might lecture a child who had played a rather amusing prank but who needed to be humbled all the same for being naughty. The fact that the voice called out immediately after Sherlock’s rudeness was incredible timing. Not even Mycroft could have orchestrated an interruption so well, and he had the entire British Government, all of MI-5 and most of MI-6 at his fingertips. 

**_Smartarse_**  

The second echo of the voice, with its same pitch and tenor had all three occupants of 221 B Baker Street searching the flat for the source of the voice. Sherlock moved towards the sofa where he had tossed his Belstaff carelessly upon returning from the A&E. Riffling through the pockets, Sherlock pulled out his mobile, taking instant notice of the blinking blue light, indicating that he had text messages. 

**_Good morning, Mr. Holmes_ ** ****

**_Feeling better?_**  

The messages were unsigned, the number blocked and likely untraceable. Not from Lestrade, then. And anyway, the DI never called Sherlock ‘Mr. Holmes’. In fact, there was only one person in recent memory that addressed Sherlock as such. 

Sherlock smiled at his phone, just a small one, barely even a grin, but his lips quirked upwards all the same. His thumb hovered over the touchscreen, ready to begin a rapid response, but the consulting detective held back, remembering his company (his very _unwanted_ company), and instead quickly composed himself, forcing the unfurling warmth that bloomed deep in his chest to ossify, if only until he could be alone. He needed to think, to process, to sort out the mystery of the man who had very cleverly tampered with his mobile (after he’d knocked Sherlock out, obvious) before actually addressing the man himself. 

“The Americans aren’t interested in a bunch of compromising photographs of the British Royal Family,” Sherlock, said, resuming his conversation with Mycroft as he subtly tucked his mobile in to the pocket of his robe. “There’s something else.” 

Mycroft did not answer, although his frown and the stiff guarded way that he suddenly held himself spoke volumes to the discerning eye. “John Watson is no longer any concern of yours,” Mycroft decided, his tone absolutely final. “You will stay out of this affair from now on, Sherlock.” 

“ _Will_ I?” 

A non-descript (boring) beeping put an end to any sort of silent showdown between the Holmes brothers before it could begin. It was Mycroft’s phone that had interrupted the atmosphere this time, and looking down at the screen he excused himself from the room to take the call on the landing. 

**_Smartarse_**  

“What is that?” Mrs. Hudson complained as she brought two mugs of tea into the room and placed them on the table. 

“It’s a text alert,” Sherlock answered distractedly as he took his phone from his pocket to give it a glance. 

**_Sorry about the knock to the head. To be fair, you didn’t leave me a choice_ ** ****

“Your phone never used to do that before, did it?” 

“It seems somebody got hold of my phone and personalized their text alert.” 

**_Smartarse_**  

Mrs. Hudson huffed in distress. Sherlock ignored her and read his newest message. 

**_I’d like to make it up to you. Next time we see each other, let’s have breakfast_**  

“Is it going to do that every time?” Mrs. Hudson wondered, agitated. “It’s a bit rude to have that going off in mixed company.” 

Sherlock ignored her, thumb hovering over the keypad, itching to begin a message. Are you alright? Where are you? Come to my flat if convenient, and if not, come all the same. Do you like pirates? What else is on that laptop? What have you done? Why breakfast? 

He was going to send something, a quick reply, something sharp, intriguing, something to make John Watson come out of hiding, but once again, Mycroft (his timing really was impeccably horrendous) interrupted Sherlock’s plans. Putting his phone back in his pocket, Sherlock looked to Mycroft, catching the last bits of his conversation. 

“Bond Air is a go, that’s decided. Check with the Coventry lot. Report later.” 

Hanging up his phone, Mycroft fully re-entered the sitting room, catching his little brother’s concentrated stare and returning the expression with a cold, calculated glower that was known for making more than one Head of State quiver in their boots. 

Sherlock simply stared right back, a dragon slayer unafraid of the dragon. 

“Something big is coming, isn’t it? And John Watson has got himself involved. Unintentionally, obviously. What is it?” 

Lips curving in a placating smirk, Mycroft took a generous sip of the tea Mrs. Hudson had prepared for him, flirted with danger and took a biscuit, before tucking his tablet under his arm and heading towards the door. 

“I think that Mrs. Hudson should be more than capable of supervising you for the rest of the morning.” 

“What about Mummy?” Sherlock asked, not out of any real concern for their mother’s feelings, but more out of a desperation to beat Mycroft at his own game. 

“I won’t tell her if you don’t,” Mycroft answered, not playing. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a rather long apology I must make to an old friend.” 

“Mycroft –” 

“You will not go looking for John Watson, Sherlock, and if you do rest assured my network will have found him long before you and I will see to it that you will never have contact with the man again.” 

“You couldn’t –“ 

“I have never made an idle threat in my life. More than that, I have never lied to you, brother mine. Do not test me,” Mycroft warned, unflappable. “Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. Remember that.” 

Sherlock wanted to argue, wanted rage and kick and scream, but he could not fault Mycroft’s words, and especially his logic. Caring for someone never saved them in the end, not when the victim had a target neatly painted on their back as it seemed John Watson did. Even if Sherlock was the cleverest man in Britain, even if he was unafraid to jump into danger, even if he did regard John Watson as the most interesting person he had ever met and was determined to save him, what did that matter? 

Sherlock didn’t understand his heart. He couldn’t calculate or rationalize or even explain his feelings. He understood the chemistry of emotions, of course, but the purpose of them, the motivations they encouraged, the reactions they induced (different, individual, irrational), were all mysteries the consulting detective wanted no part in solving. He lived in the world of facts, of unbiased scientific data and ruthless honest observation. Give him a dead body, and he was happy to go about solving your murder. Give him a warm, breathing, (blue eyed, scarred, charming smile, fit) very alive body, and Sherlock Holmes was at a loss. He wasn’t in the business of saving lives, and much like Mycroft suggested, there was no point in starting now. 

So, with that dark but irrevocable conclusion hanging in the air, Mycroft strolled away, leaving Sherlock behind with his wildly racing heart, clammy palms, and a leaden, sickly weight in the pit of his stomach. He returned to the table, drank his tea, and listened to Mrs. Hudson’s continued chatter, deflecting all of her attempts at discovering more about this ‘doctor gentleman’ he had met the day before. 

**_Smartarse_**  

And whenever his phone went off with another message from John, Sherlock resolutely and stubbornly (he never remembered stubbornness being so very, very _painful_ ; withdrawal hadn’t even been so excruciating), ignored him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is an especially long chapter, I must say, and our boys don't even reunite until the end. Trust me, though, it will be well worth the wait. And perhaps, Sherlock will finally discover just why John is so eager to share breakfast with him ;)
> 
> Not Brit-picked, so if you come across any errors, let me know and I will correct them.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter!
> 
> -V


	6. Mr. Smartarse

“Honestly, Lestrade if you’re going to waste my time I’m going to stop lending my services to the Yard every time you come begging for my input.” 

“I didn’t ask for your help, Sherlock. You were here before my team even arrived!” 

“And you’ve completely contaminated the scene,” Anderson grumbled, head swivelling as he took in the crime: a concealed corner in the basement of Marks & Spencer, a broken crystal paperweight of Napoleon Boneparte, and the dead body of a middle-aged woman with a gruesome head wound. And complimenting the bizarre tableau was one conceited consulting detective flitting around like some proud cockatoo with his curls dishevelled and his coat collar flipped up to make him look cool. 

“I haven’t touched the body,” Sherlock stated. 

 ** _Smartarse_**  

“Why haven’t we arrested him yet?” Sally Donavan complained, too incensed by Sherlock to notice his unusual text alert. Sherlock felt his heartbeat quicken, but he kept his own expression calm as he turned to address Lestrade. 

“It’s hardly my problem,” he told the DI, “that your killer tweeted her intentions to commit the crime and your team was still too late to prevent the murder, let alone catch the killer in the act, even with a full three hours’ notice.” 

“We had our people working with the IWF the moment that tweet went viral,” Sally raged. “The suspect used a disposable phone and the Twitter account traced back to dozens of fake emails. We had nothing to go on!” 

“Wrong!” Sherlock countered. 

 ** _Smartarse_**  

“What do you mean ‘her’?” Lestrade demanded, moving to stand between the two. “Sherlock, you said _her_ intentions. How do you know the killer is a her?” 

“The perfume.” 

“Perfume?” 

“Yes, can’t you smell it?” 

“All I smell is stale cigarettes,” Lestrade admitted. 

“I’m not surprised. You’ve been sneaking them since the separation. Three weeks now?” 

 ** _Smartarse_**  

“Who is that?” Sally demanded. 

“Figment of your imagination,” Sherlock mumbled. 

 ** _Smartarse_**  

“Is that…is that coming from you?” Lestrade wondered, watching as the younger man took his phone out from his pocket, set the device to vibrate, and returned it to his coat. Glancing very quickly at Lestrade (and the DI was almost inclined to say that Sherlock actually looked shy, but that was going just too far) Sherlock turned his back on all of the bemused faces and crouched beside the recently deceased. 

“The cigarette smoke is coming from Ms. Keller,” Sherlock began. 

“You know her name?” Anderson said. 

“Obviously,” was Sherlock’s curt reply, followed by the unmistakable muted pulse of a mobile vibrating. 

“Obviously,” Lestrade echoed, doing his best to keep composed. After all, it was a bit not good to giggle at a crime scene, but the put out look Sherlock shot at him was nearly the DI’s undoing, especially when the same shuddering rhythm tickled the air. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock resolutely ignored his phone and pressed his full focus to the crime scene. 

“Ms. Keller is a chain smoker, Marlboro Lights. Of course, I don’t imagine she expected her afternoon cigarette to be laced with arsenic…”

* * *

The crisp, burnt scent of flesh was unmistakable, the pungent odour so strong that it made Sherlock’s eyes water. The paper mask he wore was useless in keeping the smell at bay or the greasy taste of overcooked barbeque from coating the inside of his mouth. He shot Molly a disdainful look, annoyed that the pathologist appeared to be caught somewhere between begging his pardon and giggling like the silly woman she could sometimes (most times) be. 

“I know it’s overwhelming, but with the central ventilation failing and this spring heat wave…well, there’s not much that can be done. And you did say to call if anything interesting came up.”

“This is interesting?” Sherlock asked sceptically. 

“ _This_ was once Mr. Harvey Granger, and he was alive early this morning when he went for a walk in King’s Square Garden when witnesses say he burst into flames.” 

“Spontaneous human combustion?” Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes at the woman beside him. “Really, Molly? I asked for something interesting, not ridiculous.” 

 ** _Smartarse_**  

“What?” 

“Not you,” Sherlock muttered, quickly glancing at his phone. 

 ** _How are you today, Mr. Holmes? The Mediterranean is beautiful at sunset. Thought you might like to know_**  

Sherlock sighed. 

Another breadcrumb. Another finger curling in his direction, twitching ever so bewitchingly, ‘ _come find me_ ’. Another temptation the consulting detective struggled to refuse. Since deciding not to return a single one of John’s text messages, The Soldier seemed determined to rattle Sherlock’s will power, teasing the consulting detective with clues as to his whereabouts, asking but not asking him to chase him around the world. 

“There is no such thing as spontaneous human combustion,” Sherlock said, tucking his phone away and ignoring the second resounding ‘smartarse’ that mumbled from deep in his pocket. “Mr. Granger was a smoker, most likely an alcoholic, and he set himself on fire accidentally while having a cigarette during his stroll in the park. Case closed.” 

“Mr. Granger wasn’t a smoker,” Molly contradicted before Sherlock could leave the morgue. She preened when he stopped mid stride and turned his fierce, focused grey eyes on her. Taking a brave, trembling breath, she continued. “His wife reported that he had given up the habit years ago, and the witnesses say he wasn’t smoking when he caught fire.” A pleased blush tinted the woman’s nose when Sherlock seemed to perk at what she was saying. Swallowing down some of her nerves, Molly pressed on. “Mrs. Granger says her husband was training for a fun-run, so he was taking his health very seriously. No alcohol, no sugar, no refined carbohydrates. He was in an open area of the park when he caught fire. The eyewitness statements say that a fireball erupted from the centre of his chest.” 

Sherlock opened his mouth to interrupt but Molly beat him to his deduction. 

“And he doesn’t have a pacemaker.” 

Sherlock closed his lips, his eyes taking on that intriguing manic energy whenever something caught his keen interest. He also graced Molly with a look that could be described as impressed before he walked back to the stinking remains of Mr. Granger. Sherlock bent over the body as far as he dared and took a closer look at the chest cavity which did indeed appear to have been blown open from the inside. 

“Yes…” he sighed, suddenly seeing the potential in the mystery behind the corpse. Holding out one hand in a silent command for a pair of gloves, Molly scuttled off while Sherlock continued to examine the body, eager to determine what phenomenon could cause a man’s chest to explode from the inside, when his phone went off again. 

 ** _Smartarse_**  

Alone for the moment, Sherlock looked at his phone quickly, eyes scanning the text John had sent (another amateur clue to his whereabouts – Marseilles, obvious – and another invitation to breakfast) and found his thumb hovering over the keypad, itching to tap out a reply. 

**_In need of a doctor’s opinion. St. Bart’s. Come quickly if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway_ **

**_– SH_**  

It was completely logical. John was a doctor, a very good doctor if his service record was to be trusted, and his knowledge would be invaluable to debunking a case of spontaneous human combustion and discovering the real reason behind this rather putrid (but _interesting_!) death. John would like it, Sherlock was certain, and if they put their minds together they could surely have the case solved long before dinner, never mind breakfast. 

And even though he agreed with Mycroft (and it pained Sherlock to admit it because he had spent a large part of his life contradicting his brother if only to spite him) that caring about anyone (about John) would be foolish, Sherlock began to tap his screen when Molly returned gleefully waving a box of medical gloves. Sherlock pocketed his phone before the pathologist could notice it and returned to his examination of Mr. Granger, never letting on he had been distracted from the case for even a single moment.

* * *

**_You look sexy on Crimewatch, Mr. Holmes_ ** ****

**_I hate champagne. Prefer a nice scotch and a warm fire and good company. Are you busy tonight?_ ** ****

**_I’m bored. Let’s have breakfast_ ** ****

**_I can see the Shard and the moon from my hotel room. Work out where I am and join me_ ** ****

**_Do you always flip up your collar to try and make yourself look cool?_ ** ****

**_I’m not hungry. Let’s have breakfast_ ** ****

**_At a social function talking to an idiot. Come find me and let’s have breakfast_ ** ****

**_Saw you at St. Bart’s today but you didn’t see me. Shame_ ** ****

**_DI Lestrade is fit. But don’t be jealous, his cheekbones are nothing compared to yours_ ** ****

**_Back in England. Spain wasn’t very exciting. Let’s have breakfast and I’ll tell you about it_ ** ****

**_I think you should start wearing a hat_ ** ****

**_Bought a new jumper today. I’m sure you’d hate it_ ** ****

**_For God’s sake, Sherlock! Let’s have breakfast_**  

“Mr. Holmes? Are you listening to me?” 

“Mmm?” Sherlock mumbled, continuing to scan through the dozens of text messages John had sent to him over the last seven months. He didn’t even raise his gaze from the phone to address his client. “Continue, Mr. Humphries.”           

“It’s Heinkel.” 

“Yes.” 

“Look, I know you must think I’m barmy, everyone else does, but I swear to you, Mr. Holmes, I am just as logical as you are.” 

“I doubt that,” Sherlock muttered, ignoring Mr. Heinekin’s testimony in favour of focusing on the last three messages that John had sent him in as many weeks. 

**_It’s true what they say about what Scotsmen don’t wear under their kilts. I have a kilt_ ** ****

**_The smell of sheep always reminds me of my Granda. I used to spend every summer with him_ ** ****

**_Do you like tatties, Mr. Holmes? Let’s have breakfast and I promise I’ll share_**  

The trio of messages weren’t like the breadcrumbs John usually sent him. They weren’t trying to be clever or cryptic about his location. They weren’t even trying to be flirty, at least, not too much. They were more like musings put into words in the spur of the moment without any real thought behind them. At least, to anyone who wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, it would seem that way. What the untrained eye would most likely miss was the single thread that linked each text together and gave away John Watson’s whereabouts as clearly as a blinking dot on a radar. 

Kilts. Granda. Tatties. 

**_You must be having a dreadful holiday in Scotland, John. It’s done nothing but rain all month._ **

**_– SH_**  

Sherlock deleted the message with a shake of his head and tried to think of something more impressive to type. Something that, if John were with him in 221 B, would make the doctor smile and chuckle and reach out to stroke Sherlock’s cheek, play with his hair, lean in close…something really brilliant. 

**_Do you stay in the same room you did as a boy at your Grandfather’s cottage?_ **

**_– SH_ ** ****

**_Did you make the tatties yourself from potatoes from your grandparents’ garden?_ **

**_– SH_ ** ****

**_Are you wearing a kilt right now? Because you’re in Scotland and that’s where men wear kilts. You’re in Scotland at your Granda’s cottage eating a full breakfast and I do like tatties and why do you keep asking me to join you for breakfast in the first place?_ **

**_– SH_**  

“Oh God!” Sherlock hollered, rising from his chair and tossing his phone behind the sofa in a fit of pique. This game was getting completely ridiculous and sod Mycroft, Sherlock wanted to text John, wanted to go to John in Scotland, wanted to bring John to London and Baker Street and 221 B. Wanted to share that scotch and that fire and tease him about his ugly jumper and deduce every single day they had been apart from the lines on John’s face, the shadows under his eyes, the turn-ups on his jeans, the scuffs on his shoes. 

But he couldn’t. Because he had made the choice not to, even if it had felt like the wrong choice from the very beginning. In an absolutely sour mood, Sherlock was reminded that he had an audience by the jittery breathing of his unnerved client, and was resolved to put an end to at least some of his irritation. 

“Get out,” Sherlock commanded, tossing the man’s coat and hat at him. 

“Please, Mr. Holmes, you must take my case!” 

“There is no case.” 

“But my aunt, it’s not her! I know human ash, Mr. Holmes, and what was given to me was not the remains of my aunt.” 

“Mr. Helmsman –” 

“The crematorium she was sent to doesn’t even exist! And there’s a paper trail, too. At least a dozen other cremations documented, but how could that be if the facility isn’t real?” 

That declaration gave Sherlock some pause, a small, fragile flicker of interest beginning to bloom in his eyes. Seeing the consulting detective’s features begin to shift, Mr. Heinkel relaxed and pressed forward with his theory, convinced he had at last found someone who believed him at last. 

“So, of course, there can only be one explanation for it,” he began, sucking on his bottom lip as Sherlock gave him a long, scrutinising stare. “Aliens, Mr. Holmes. They are taking the bodies of the dead for some sort of experimentation on the human species.” 

“Goodbye, Mr. Hossenfeffer.” 

And before the mad man could protest, Sherlock had pushed him out of the flat and bolted the door, ignoring the sounds of the sputtering, conspiracy theorizing idiot in favour of getting down on all fours and crawling around the sofa in search of his phone.

* * *

“Do you ever answer him?” 

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade from the mountain of paperwork he was being forced to fill out and quirked one long eyebrow in query. 

“Do you ever reply?” Lestrade repeated, taking a seat opposite the consulting detective, offering a paper cup of coffee as if it were some sort of fair trade, caffeine for information that was none of his business. “To him. The bloke who sends you all the texts. Mr. Smartarse.” 

“That’s not his name,” Sherlock replied defensively. 

“Didn’t think it was,” Lestrade hummed as he sipped his own coffee. “But you’ve never said what his name is so I’ve had to come up with something to call your mystery texter.” 

“If you were a better detective, Lestrade, you wouldn’t have to come up with names because you would already know what it is.” 

“Even you can’t deduce a person’s name from their text alert.” 

 ** _Smartarse_**  

“Speak of the devil,” Lestrade chuckled, watching with an affectionate amusement as Sherlock looked at his phone and offered no commentary on the message he had received before returning to his paperwork. “That’s fifty-seven, by the way. At least, the ones I’ve heard.” 

“Thrilling that you’ve been counting,” Sherlock replied, refusing to even hint that he had been counting as well, or reveal that over the last ten months, John Watson had sent him a total of three hundred and ten text messages. 

And Sherlock had never sent a single reply 

He had kept all of John’s texts of course, for strictly the investigative purpose of navigating the man’s location around the globe. It was good practice to be up-to-date on the movement of one’s…foe? Foil? Friend? Something. And reading John’s latest text gave Sherlock no doubt as to where The Soldier expected to find himself in the coming weeks. 

Sherlock smiled to himself, enjoying the buzzing excitement that fluttered low in his belly, making his throat tighten and his skin flush and his toes tap, all the while resolutely ignoring Lestrade’s continued (pitiful) attempts to wrest more information from him. 

**_I think I might send you a Christmas gift, Mr. Holmes_ **

* * *

The itch had pushed him to the very brink of his sanity. 

He was fidgeting wildly, his most obvious tell, and he was trying to control his body by tucking his hands into the deep pockets of his Belstaf and keeping his knees locked together. Still, there was very little to be done to stop the tremors. At least to any passers-by it would appear as if Sherlock was merely shivering due to the bitter winter air and not because he was battling the desperate, keening, nearly all consuming want for a strong hit of cocaine. 

Seven percent, that was all he needed, his usual. Or it had been his usual a little over six years ago, before he’d gone to that horrid rehabilitation centre at Mycroft’s insistence. Since then, Sherlock hadn’t touched a single illegal substance, having discovered that the best alternative to getting high was solving interesting mysteries. It was probably not the healthiest solution, substituting one addiction for another, but the whole point of either compulsion was to keep Sherlock’s mind from ripping itself to shreds. 

For six years he had been clean, and every other time he had been tempted (all due to the utter drudgery of life and its lack of suitably interesting murders) Lestrade would suddenly text him with a cold case that needed reviewing, or Mrs. Hudson would visit and keep him occupied with fresh biscuits and inane chatter about Mrs. Turner’s married ones, or Molly would have a new stock of tongues she needed someone to take off her hands, or even Mycroft (bloody meddling git) would come round with a favour that Sherlock would always refuse at first on principle, before eventually agreeing to take up, if only to have Mycroft be in his debt. 

But tonight was so very different from any of those other, easily resolved dark moods. Tonight couldn’t be fixed with cold cases, or biscuits, or tongues, or even having one over on his older brother. Tonight, there was nothing that could soothe the chaos thrashing through Sherlock’s entire body, making a wreck of his mind and positively gutting the heart he swore he did not possess. Only the sweet, too short relief of the needle in his arm and the drug in his veins could possibly cure the storm that was set on destroying Sherlock from the inside out. 

The bolthole wasn’t one of his old ones, so he was fairly certain that he could get away with at least one, perhaps two, good hits before he was inevitably found and carted away, hopefully too stoned to care about the predictable lecture Mycroft would give him. 

‘ _Really, Sherlock?! As if Mummy doesn’t have enough to worry about._ _What would Father say?_ ’ 

Father. 

Papa, Sherlock had called him before he was sent away to prep school. A simple man with a simple job, an easily readable face, and a penchant for laughing at his own jokes. Siger William Scott Holmes, always the calm one in the middle of the Holmesian madness that was Sherlock, Mycroft and Mummy, ready with just the right words, and the perfect cup of tea, and that garish bowtie he manically enjoyed wearing to embarrass his children... 

…the very first person who had praised Sherlock for his deductions, even though he had completely ruined dinner by announcing that Mummy’s boss was having an affair simply by observing the laces of his shoes. While the man had been stuttering excuses as his wife began beating him with the Sunday roast and Mummy was threating to call the police, Siger had simply ruffled Sherlock’s curls, chuckling at the commotion, and smiled down at his serious five year old son. 

‘ _That was very clever, Sherlock. Well done._ ’ 

Sherlock wondered if Father still remembered that Sunday dinner from so long ago. He couldn’t ask him, not when he was laying prone in a hospital bed, tubes attached to his body keeping him medicated and asleep while he recovered from emergency bypass surgery. Siger had suffered a heart attack earlier that afternoon and was rushed to hospital, attended to by the very best physicians Mycroft could buy (or blackmail), and despite having flat lined twice in the OR, was now rehabilitating and expected to make a full, if slow, recovery. 

Alive. 

Father…Papa, was alive, and all Sherlock could think about was getting high. Well, it wasn’t _all_ he could think about. The only other thought demolishing his brilliant mind was that one day, and that day might be sooner rather than later, his father was going to die. And Sherlock felt so stupid for even thinking it because of course his father was going to die. So was Mummy, so was Mycroft, so was Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Molly. Even he, Sherlock Holmes the genius consulting detective, was going to die one day. 

Because that’s what people do.

 

And for a man who had made death his career, it vexed Sherlock to no end that he had never once given a single stray thought to the idea of his parents’ mortality. He was angry at himself for missing something so obvious, and it was that gross oversight that frightened Sherlock, made him question his mind and his heart so much that all he wanted was for his brain to shut up for a few hours. 

Sherlock took a single step towards the drug den. 

 ** _Smartarse_**  

He stopped. He stood still on the pavement, cold, annoyed, confused. For almost five minutes Sherlock silently debated whether or not to look at the message, the weight of his phone in his pocket like an anchor keeping him from drifting towards the bolthole. He so often looked forward to hearing from John, re-reading his messages over and over, deducing where The Soldier was and what he was up to based on a few lines of script. But he was put out with John, actually rather irritated with the man if he were honest. 

John had not kept his word and sent him anything for Christmas, and Sherlock had been so set on ignoring how disappointed he was he abused his violin egregiously for the whole horrid day until Lestrade was forced to come by because of all the noise complaints. Sherlock wasn’t so certain he wanted to hear John’s excuses or his apology (or worse, that John had forgotten him), yet he also couldn’t help himself from unlocking his phone and reading the message. 

 ** _I miss you, Sherlock. Happy New Year_**  

Sherlock smiled for the first time in almost a month. He had no reason to believe John’s words, but he did, and more than that, they were enough. Why, he didn’t know or couldn’t say, but like the most perfect cup of tea, John’s words soothed every ache and trouble rattling Sherlock’s mind. He didn’t stop to question it when he typed out his response, and he didn’t hesitate to hit send, rediscovering a hint of joy he had been missing since he’d raced down the streets of Belgravia with an ex-army doctor and fugitive sex worker, CIA trained killers on their trail. 

**_Happy New Year, John_ **

**_– SH_ **

With an ease he had thought quite improbable, Sherlock turned and walked away from the bolthole. He made his way to the curb and hailed a cab, directing the driver to Baker Street and, for good measure, he flipped two fingers at every passing CCTV camera, giggling to himself. 

It was odd to feel so suddenly at ease when moments ago he had been ready to go completely mad. After all, besides Father’s health, there was the whole Christmas holiday itself that always managed to put Sherlock in a strop. He abhorred the festivities and was especially aggravated this year because not only was there a vast decrease in interesting murders (holiday sentiment, bah humbug!), but the only truly stimulating case that had been brought to his attention in the last week was irksomely still unsolved. Perhaps that is how he would occupy the rest of his New Year’s Eve. Although why it was taking Sherlock so long to find out how the body of a German businessman meant to be on a flight that had exploded on take-off earlier in November ended up in the boot of an abandoned car outside of Heathrow four weeks after the fact was just as much as mystery to the consulting detective. There were just so many pieces that didn’t fit and he was going over the details in his Mind Palace when he finally arrived at his home and started up the stairs to his flat. 

“Oh, Sherlock, dear, where have you been? Your mother and brother have been ring—” 

“Tell them I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, not in the mood for one of her lectures. “Long night ahead, don’t want to be bothered. Some tea would be nice.” 

“I’m not your housekeeper!” Mrs. Hudson snapped. “And if you didn’t want to be bothered then you shouldn’t have invited your friend over.” Her words gave Sherlock immediate pause, and the thirty-four year old halted on the landing to look down at her. 

“My… _friend_?” 

“He was waiting in the foyer so long I finally gave him the spare key and told him to just go up and make himself at home. Very nice young man. Quite charming, _polite_ ,” she stared pointedly at Sherlock then. “He said he was here to give you a belated Christmas gift.” 

Sherlock’s pupils dilated and his pulse began to race. Ignoring his landlady, Sherlock took two steps at a time as he rushed up to his flat and threw open the door. 

221 B was just as it ever was. His experiments were in the kitchen, the graffiti of a smiley face on the wall, and the skull was on the mantle. What was different was the warm fire crackling in the hearth, a ridiculous Santa hat on Billy (the skull), the scent of a spicy aftershave that wasn’t his own filling the air… 

And standing in the middle of his sitting room, all wrapped up in dreadful holiday jumper with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye was Mr. Smartarse himself. 

“John…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> So I`ve been doing som rejigging of chapters and I`ve finally sorted out the narrative of this story, which is why things have been moved around. So sorry this isn`t a new chapter, but the new on is very soon to be added!


	7. I am _ _ _ _ LOCKED

“Evening, Mr. Holmes.”

For one of the very rare times in his life, Sherlock was speechless. He stood in the doorway, drinking John in like he was a work of art. He catalogued everything, the bags under John’s eyes (less than three hours’ sleep in the last two days), where the wool of his jumper was thin and frayed (an old one, worn often, kept for sentimental reasons; maternal family member made it, most likely mother, possibly a favourite aunt), the patches of stubble along his jaw (hasn’t had a proper shave in at least a week; moving quickly with little notice), that the hem of his trousers were damp (walked to Baker Street from a fair distance, Lambeth perhaps), and that there were many more grey hairs dotting his temple than there had been the last time they met (stress, a great deal of it).

But most of all he noticed the way John’s face, although exhausted and a bit pale, seemed to light up the moment Sherlock had entered the flat, almost as if he found comfort in the consulting detective’s presence. For his part, Sherlock most certainly felt more at ease now that he could see John, even smell him, talk to him, touch him…that is, if he wanted.

And he did. Want, that is.

He could already feel the heat from John’s body on his palms, itching to reach out and hold the man to assure himself that John was in middle of 221 B. Sherlock nearly raised a hand to do so, but then he noticed.

“You’ve lost weight,” he said, eyes roving over the loose fit of John’s trousers, particularly around the hips. John just shrugged, as if to say ‘what can you do?’ and moved towards the kitchen.

“I put the kettle on. Hope you don’t mind. Would you like a cuppa?”

“Milk, three sugars,” Sherlock answered, an automatic response to anyone who was offering him a cup of tea. He pretended not to notice the way John rolled his eyes, or that he smiled just a bit, before beginning to prepare their tea. Slowly, Sherlock sat in his chair so that he could observe John comfortably. He watched John move through the kitchen with the same ease as Mrs. Hudson. Better than Mrs. Hudson, actually, since John didn’t screech when he looked in the sugar bowl and found hundreds of teeth. He did curse and shoot Sherlock a reproachful scowl, but he never screamed or scolded, just put the sugar bowl back where he had found it and rummaged through the cupboards until he found a few packets of sweetener. “Who are you running from?” Sherlock asked.

“Who am I not running from?” John countered ruefully as he made the tea. “I was in London. It’s New Year’s Eve. I wanted to see you, maybe even stay for a little while. It could be nice.” He didn’t speak for several long moments, letting the tea steep, lost in thoughts Sherlock wished he could see. “Someone is trying to kill me,” John finally admitted.

“Who?”

“A killer.”

“It would help if you were a bit more specific,” Sherlock grumbled, doing his best to pretend he was in no mood for John’s games. But John could see right through him, smiling at the consulting detective and looking very much younger than he had just minutes ago. Silence, familiar and cosy settled over the pair as John completed making the tea. Eventually, he brought two steaming mugs into the sitting room, taking the chair opposite Sherlock’s. He sighed as he sank into the maroon cushions, fitting perfectly into the empty space that Sherlock hadn’t even realized was empty until John was filling it. John belonged in that chair, drinking from that mug, in 221 B, with Sherlock. This was how it should always be.

Sherlock took a sip of his tea, a small distraction from his mind’s flight of fancy, and found it to be perfect. A little too sweet than was considered civil in England which made Sherlock love it all the more, and perhaps because he was in the company of the only person in the world he enjoyed, Sherlock suspected his tea tasted all the better. The two men regarded each other silently, drinking their tea, warming by the fire, soaking in the moment, actually basking in each other’s presence. But the peace couldn’t last forever.

Frankly, that would be as boring as breathing.

“What sort of trouble are you in?” Sherlock asked.

“That was rather quick,” John chided.

“I’m not in the habit of making small talk. In fact, I abhor it.”

“Shocking,” John teased, smiling around the rim of his mug.

“So rather than speak in circles about how you’ve been – poorly – where you’ve been – across the continent – and how the weather is – wet – I prefer to get to the point. You came to me for help. Why and with what do you need help, John?”

Some of the amusement abandoned John’s eyes. He flexed his left hand and licked his lips thoughtfully, all the while staring at Sherlock. He was concerned, that much was certain, but for what? It was vexing to have his observation and deduction skills fail him for the one person to which they would be the most useful. Even more infuriating was that John was disappointingly easy to read, but when it came to issues close to his heart, The Soldier was as unmoving as marble. And Sherlock wanted to help John with his troubles, truly, earnestly, but he needed to know the truth and motivations behind those troubles before he could do anything else. 

“This killer who’s after you, tell me his name.”

“No,” John replied, evenly and with a firm finality. “You’re no match for him, Sherlock. No don’t make that face,” he sighed, watching as Sherlock’s brows crinkled in disbelief, an expression of fury, and wounded ego contorting his features. Much as he didn’t like upsetting Sherlock, John did not waver. “You’re cleverer than him by far, but it’s not that,” he clarified. “He’s a psychopath.”

“I’m a high functioning sociopath.”

“No, you’re not,” John said, absolute certainty in his tone. “I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes, and that’s why I won’t tell you who he is, because he’ll destroy you.”

“Unlikely.”

“Tell that to the seven MI-6 agents his associates killed while following me across Europe,” John countered seriously. That bit of news did take Sherlock by surprise, and while his expression remained cool, John could tell just from the glow in his eyes that he had gobsmacked the man across from him. “Didn’t your brother tell you he was having me followed?”

Mycroft. The dots connected in Sherlock’s mind instantly. Of course Mycroft was having John followed, probably since the day he’d escaped from Belgravia. But it seemed even Mycroft’s arsenal of MI-6 goons were no match for the man after John. He was most certainly a deadly and dangerous puppet-master, this anonymous attempted assassin. It made Sherlock want to confront him even more, made him want to convince John to tell him who he was.

But he wouldn’t. The steely tint to his eyes and the clench of his left hand was enough to tell Sherlock that John would be immovable on the subject. Which left the consulting detective only one card to play. “If you want my help, I’ll need to see your laptop.”

“No.”

“Then I can’t help, I’m afraid,” he sighed, playing at being truly disappointed, crossing his legs and taking out his phone to pretend he was much more interested in scrolling through texts. “You can show yourself out. I’m very busy, much to do.”

“Sherlock, I told you. This laptop is my life,” John said gravely.

“And now you’re asking me to help save your life but you refuse to allow me access to the resources that will provide the most efficient and expedient aid. You’re really only hurting yourself. Stupid, actually.”

John licked his bottom lip, weighing his options, no doubt repressing the desire to strangle Sherlock where he sat. The energy in the air between the two men was all very charged, practically popping. It was exciting, and a bit dangerous, and far better than any drug Sherlock could think of using. He stared at John and John stared back, each one waiting for the other to fold.

It was no surprise to Sherlock when John heaved a rather interesting sigh and moved towards the table where he had placed his laptop after entering the flat. “I’ll let you look at my laptop,” he said, taking the computer out of its satchel before placing it on his lap, “if you tell me how you deduced the code to my safe.”

Sherlock chuckled, a rich sound that shook deep in John’s chest like the beating of his own heart.

“Elementary, John,” he said, eyes aglow with delight. He truly loved showing off, which John may have muttered under his breath, but Sherlock paid no heed. “You are a complicated man. You wear the suit of The Solider to protect what you really are.”

“A man?”

“A doctor. Army doctor to be specific.”

“Ah yes, a doctor,” John echoed, his voice sounding far away, like he was looking back through the years at the man he had once been. “I was that for a time, wasn’t’ I?”

“Exactly!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“I don’t follow.”

“This gigolo you pretend to be, The Soldier, is just another safe you use to hide your secrets. To hide what you truly value.”

“I’m not ashamed of my sex work, Mr. Holmes,” John replied coolly, eyes hardening. He was offended that Sherlock seemed to be mocking him, which was very interesting indeed. It meant that John cared what Sherlock thought of him, placed importance on his standing in the eyes of the consulting detective. That was good. It meant Sherlock wasn’t alone in wanting to be something grand in the eyes of another. And John seemed to be so enthralled and enchanted with Sherlock’s deductions, that it spurred him on.

“But you have two bedrooms, one where you perform as The Soldier, and one where you are John Watson. Your work in the army as a doctor is more personal to you. You value it above all else. Once I deduced that, the combination to the safe was obvious.”

“My army number,” John whispered, smiling at Sherlock with awe and pride, the coolness from his eyes melted away to reveal nothing but an earnest warmth and adoration. It made Sherlock’s heart actually flutter inside of his chest, just like a bee’s wings. “Oh, the cleverness of you,” John praised.

“Not at all,” Sherlock answered, his voice cracking as the weight of the atmosphere began to press around him. It was getting rather hot. “One of the photographs from your website had you wearing your army tags in plain view. You were flashing your combination about for any idiot to see.”

“Well, you know the saying about hiding a tree in the forest.”

Sherlock didn’t and so he didn’t respond. Instead, he stared at John, calculating, impatient, fidgety. John continued to smile in a way that was both endearing and aggravating as he placed his laptop in Sherlock’s lap. Eagerly , Sherlock opened the computer and powered it up. He wasn’t surprised when a log-in page loaded, asking for a passcode. He clicked on the icon that offered up a personalized clue and was disappointed to find that John had programed one.

And it was pedestrianly simple.

**I am _ _ _ _ LOCKED**

Sherlock clicked his tongue at John as if he were chastising a child. Really, the hint was practically serving up the passcode on a silver platter, Sherlock had thought John a tad cleverer than that and was admittedly disappointed. John did not respond to Sherlock, simply reclined in his chair and waited. Without hesitating, Sherlock tapped out the four letters that would open the laptop.

**S H E R**

“Honestly, John, I expected a little more of a challenge from –“

_BUZZ_

The alarm startled Sherlock from his gloating. He looked down at his lap and was met with a warning box.

**WRONG PASSCODE: 2 ATTEMPTS REMAINING**

Sherlock was dumbfounded. He stared at the computer screen as if it had insulted him and he was preparing to throw down a glove and challenge it to pistols at dawn.

"You didn't think it would be that simple?” John teased, finishing his tea. Sherlock growled, nearly bard his teeth, because of course he thought it would be that simple, most things were for ordinary people like John...

John. Of course! The passcode wasn’t just that simple it was too simple, but so unbelievably simple that it was utterly idiotic, which made it brilliant. This one was most definitely the right passcode. Once again with posturing confidence, Sherlock keyed in four letters.

**J O H N**

When the warning pop-up flashed that he only had one attempt left it was all Sherlock could do not to throw the blasted machine at John’s smirking face.

“Tell me,” he demanded, but John refused. Sherlock slouched in his chair, sulking. “And I suppose if I input a final passcode and it’s incorrect the motherboard will shut down.”

“Blow up, actually,” John said.

‘ _Another gun in the safe_ ,’ Sherlock groaned within the recesses of his mind. Frustrated, he slapped the laptop down on John’s thighs, sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and waited. He ignored that John was laughing at him, and was irked when the man actually went to the bathroom to type in his passcode, assuring that he was protected from Sherlock’s prying eyes. When he returned, the computer’s desktop screen was illuminated.

“Here you go,” John said, placing two very small security cameras into Sherlock’s palm. “I’m assuming they belong to your brother. He’s a bit of a prick.”

“You have no idea,” Sherlock groaned, tossing the cameras into the fire, disgruntled that he couldn’t even count on Mycroft to have discovered the passcode. What was the point of letting his brother bug his flat if he couldn’t gain something useful out of it?

“There’s another one in the skull, in case you didn’t know.”

“What do you keep in that? Generally, I mean,” Sherlock said, not at all eager to talk about Mycroft and his smothering overprotectiveness (and yes, of course he knew about the camera in Billy).

“Anything I might find useful really,” John said as he typed at the keyboard with two fingers. “For protection, you see.”

“And now you’ve acquired something that’s more danger than protection. Do you know what it means?”

“I don’t understand it,” John confessed, still sifting through files, face illuminated by the too bright light of the screen, making him look like a something ethereal. “There was this MOD official and his mistress. I knew what they liked. She liked roleplaying and he liked showing off. Told me this email was going to save the world. So when he and the missus were tied up and blindfolded I made a copy and downloaded it.”

Finding the right file, John turned the laptop over to Sherlock. Greedily, Sherlock took in the content, absorbing it into the depths of his mind.

**007 CONFIRMATION ALLOCATION**

**4C12C45F13E13G60A60B61F34G32J60D12H33K34K**

Sherlock stared at the mess of letters and numbers, looking for a pattern, eager to break the code. He leaned in close, concentrating completely on the screen.

“What do you see, Mr. Holmes?” John asked. He’d moved to stand by Sherlock, although Sherlock didn’t know when that had happened. He was leaned over the back of the chair, seemingly intent on the computer screen, or so Sherlock thought until he felt John’s fingers play with the short dark curls at the nape of his neck. “Go on,” he whispered coyly, “impress a bloke.”

As he moved in close, time seemed to slow for Sherlock. His mind began working on the puzzle, eager to solve it, and more than zealous in his desire to impress John. His eyes darted about along the code, seeing glyphs and cyphers no one else could. And even while he concentrated, his mind moving at incredible speed, the whisper of John lingered, not hindering Sherlock’s progress, but urging him on, giving him a charge that made him work better. He could smell the tea on John’s breath, the clean disinfectant tang of his soap, he could feel John’s heat, his stare, the gentle brush of his nose as it nuzzled along his cheek, before John’s lips sealed over his earlobe and his teeth nibbled on the soft, blushing flesh.

And then, it was all over.

“There’s a margin for error, but I’m pretty sure there’s a 747 leaving Heathrow the day after tomorrow at 6:30 in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it’s going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true but give me a moment I’ve only been on the case for eight seconds.”

Silence met his rapid-fire deduction, the sweet smell of John fading away, the tickle of fingers in his curls retreating, the cosy heat of another body so near abandoning Sherlock to an unwelcome chill. Sherlock craned his neck to look at John who was standing straight up and a few inches away, and was met with a blank stare.

“Oh come on. It’s not that difficult,” he groused.

“It’s not a boomerang either,” John grumbled back. Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“These are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look,” he pointed at the string of letters and numbers. “There’s no letter ‘I’ because it can be mistaken for a ‘1’; no letters past ‘K’ – the width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place – families and couples sitting together. Only a Jumbo is wide enough to need the letter ‘K’ or rows past fifty-five, which is why there’s always an upstairs. There’s a row thirteen, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there’s the style of the flight number – zero, zero, seven – that eliminates a few more assuming British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information. Assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent, the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the 6:30 to Baltimore in two days from Heathrow Airport.”

When he looked at John again, the man was staring at the computer screen, eyes flitting back and forth, trying to see what Sherlock had seen so very clearly.

“Do you really have the flights at Heathrow memorized?” John asked, half jesting, half serious.

“Check the flight schedules. See if I’m right,” Sherlock dared, offering John his laptop. While John did take the computer and go back to sit in his chair, he did not bother corroborating Sherlock’s deduction. The mad man was right. There was no arguing. Licking his lips, John avoided Sherlock’s gaze to stare at his screen.

“Flight double oh seven,” he muttered, rubbing his temple.

“What did you say?” Sherlock asked sharply.

“Double oh seven. Flight double oh seven,” John repeated. “Why?”

“Double oh seven, double oh, seven, double oh seven, double oh seven…” Sherlock muttered, trying to place that exact combination of numbers. What did they mean? Where had he heard them before? Why was Mycroft pushing himself to the forefront of his mind instead of residing in the bogged up sewers of Sherlock’s Mind Palace where he belonged?

“Sherlock?” John asked, dropping the ‘Mr. Holmes’ title as his voice dripped with concern. He was about to reach out and touch Sherlock’s knee when the rapid pounding of someone racing up the stairs to 221 B stopped him. Without hesitating, John stood and took a defensive stance in front of the seated Sherlock, body tense and rippling with energy, ready to pounce on their frenzied intruder. The door to the sitting room burst open and a man all in grey barged in.

“Sherlock! Why aren’t you answering your bloody – oh…”

“Oh,” John echoed, relaxing immediately as he recognized the irate trespasser as DI Lestrade. “Hello,” he said politely, stepping forward to shake the man’s hand.

“Hello,” Lestrade replied, shaking John’s hand firmly, brown eyes roving up and down the man curiously. “Sorry, Sherlock, didn’t know you had company.”

“I surprised him,” John replied, smiling charmingly. “I’m John. John Watson.”

“Greg Lestrade.”

“Yes. I’ve read about you. Sherlock helps on some of your cases.”

“I solve his cases, I don’t just help,” Sherlock corrected arrogantly, standing up.

“Don’t be such an arse,” John chided, more exasperated than serious, turning to grin at Sherlock. The way John said ‘arse’ gave Lestrade a start, and he stared at John like he was some sort of mythical creature come to life.

“It’s you,” he said. He turned to Sherlock. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Tell me why you’re here,” Sherlock insisted.

“Don’t change the subject,” Lestrade countered. He clapped a hand on John’s shoulder and gave him a firm shake. “You’re the bloke that’s been texting him.”

John chuckled. “How’d you guess?”

“You have a way with words, Mr. Smartarse,” Lestrade said by way of an explanation. “Thank you for keeping him from driving me mad. Too much.”

“Any time.”

“If you two are quite done,” Sherlock interrupted, not so much irritated that he was being chaffed (again), but he didn’t care for how chummy John and Lestrade were getting. The pair had hit it off immediately, acting like old friends from school reunited at last, and the way they kept eyeing each other, the way John kept smiling and being charming and the way Lestrade still had his hand on John’s shoulder…it was unacceptable. “What’s the case, Lestrade, and don’t waste my time.”

“A murder on Abbey Road. Looks like a burglary gone wrong.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“No. They left a witness. Seems strange. Will you come?” Lestrade asked. “It’s at least a seven.”

“No more than a five. Dull. I’ll have it solved before midnight,” Sherlock countered. John just shook his head, wondering why he was even surprised that Sherlock had a number scale gauging how interesting potential cases were.

“I’ve got a police car –”

“John and I will follow you in a cab,” Sherlock decided.

Lestrade was about to protest John being brought onto the case, but a stern look from Sherlock and the promise that John was a doctor and would refrain from touching anything at the scene convinced the detective inspector to allow Sherlock his assistant.

“But he’s your responsibility,” Lestrade said.

“I’m not a child,” John protested, offended.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Lestrade replied, nodding at John and completely ignoring Sherlock as he turned and left 221 B. John tried not to chuckle and failed.

“Well, then,” Sherlock said, throwing his long dark coat on with great dramatic flair, pleased to have John to himself and a murder to share with him, “shall we?”

John smiled, that wonderful, charming, so very John smile, and it made Sherlock feel like that swarm of bees that buzzed within his heart whenever he was in John’s company could make him fly across London.

“Ready when you are,” John said, getting his own coat off the hook and following Sherlock down the seventeen stairs of 221 B and into the chilly winter night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It`s so good to have the boys back together again, isn`t it?


	8. A Dangerous Disadvantage

Two days later in the early evening, the door to 221 B was flung open, and two giggling, out of breath men toppled into the entrance and reclined breathlessly against the wall. 

“That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” John huffed giddily. 

“And you invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock joked, resulting in another round of hysterical giggles. 

“That wasn’t just me,” John replied, breathing hard. “And how did you know it was Afghanistan?” 

“The probability of a soldier of today’s wars having served a tour in one of several countries in the Middle East is –” 

“You guessed.” 

“I never guess.” 

“Yes,” John sighed, his laughter fading like vapour into the air. He placed a warm hand on Sherlock’s nape, his blunt fingers caressing the bit of skin that peeked from under his scarf. “You do.” 

Sherlock had nothing to say to that. He was at a complete loss for even a single word. So he stayed silent and stared into John’s eyes, watched his pupils dilate and his tongue slicken his lips and a becoming flush of cerise spot his cheeks. 

“Drink?” Sherlock asked, voice husky and rich. 

“Parched,” John answered, his voice just a whisper that ghosted across Sherlock’s mouth, a kiss before a kiss. Sherlock’s own racing adrenaline and the undeniable attraction that he felt towards John were as potent as the high he got off cocaine, and Sherlock never wanted to come down. 

After stopping by Mrs. Hudson’s to collect John’s laptop (they’d left it in the safest place Sherlock knew) and being soundly lectured for not leaving word with her for thirty-four hours, both men made their way up to the flat. John started a fire while Sherlock retrieved a bottle of aged scotch and two tumblers. He poured a generous amount, feeling bold and alive, and returned to the warming sitting room. John was standing by the window staring out over Baker Street, admiring the view, perhaps imagining being able to take in that view everyday if he wanted. Sherlock hoped so. He approached John softly and handed him a tumbler.

“Ta,” John said. He clinked Sherlock’s glass. “It’s a few days late, but here’s to the New Year.” 

Sherlock smiled and took a mouthful of his drink, taking the time to let the warm amber liquor touch every taste bud before swallowing, and even then he closed his eyes to really relish the delicious burn that coursed down his throat. He moaned unabashedly, letting his voice shake the room, mingling with the sound of the crackling fire. When he opened his eyes, John was standing close, staring at his throat. Sherlock swallowed a second time and watched as John watched him. 

“Do you like it?” Sherlock asked, meaning the scotch. 

“Yes,” John replied, meaning something completely different. “Jesus, watching you solve that murder…there aren’t words.” 

“Not even brilliant?” Sherlock quipped, smirking lopsidedly. 

“That was not brilliant. That was something so much more than brilliant!” John exclaimed. 

“Well, you helped,” Sherlock said, feeling generous for the first time in his life. “Without your medical opinion of the bruising under Martin Brackenstall’s eye it could have taken me another twenty-four hours before I’d determined the truth.” 

“Why Mr. Holmes, I believe you are paying me a compliment,” John said, stepping closer. 

“Merely remarking upon the facts,” Sherlock assured, his voice going lower, as if he were afraid to shatter the moment. John smiled at him and put his empty glass of scotch on the table. Coyly, he raised a hand to Sherlock’s chest and pressed his palm over the anxious flutter of Sherlock’s heart. Sherlock put his glass down, too, and waited. 

“It wasn’t just your deductions,” John said thoughtfully, eyes roving over Sherlock’s body, cataloguing every angle and point, every straining shirt button and errant curl, every beat of his heart, every shaky exhale. “It was everything. The crime scene, and the stakeout, and the chase up the South Bank…it was the most exciting date I’ve ever had!” 

“Was it a date?” Sherlock asked around a sigh. 

“Well, a date is usually when two people who like each other go out and have fun, and that’s what we did,” John teased, moving in close, mouth nearly touching Sherlock’s in a kiss he’d been waiting for for almost a year. 

But John missed Sherlock’s mouth entirely (on purpose!) and pecked his chin instead. It was sensational. His lips were wet from the drink but chapped from the weather. The bit of scruff he’d sported two days ago was longer, thicker, and it tickled Sherlock in the most pleasant way. John smelled divine, of scotch and fog and the night…he smelled like London. The sensations were powerful, and Sherlock felt himself getting light-headed. He shouldn’t have drunk his scotch so quickly, especially not on a three-days’ empty stomach. He moved away from John, stood on the opposite side of the table, needing only a bit of space so he could think. John, amused by Sherlock’s retreat, but not wanting to make him uncomfortable, remained where he stood. 

“So what’s all this?” John asked, waving his hand over the paperwork that littered the table. It seemed for the best to change the subject, and Sherlock was always most comfortable when discussing his work and showing off. There were photographs and files and Sherlock’s own notes creating a sort of organized chaos that John knew he had no hope of understanding, so he asked the consulting detective, eager to urge Sherlock out from behind the walls he had so soundly built. Sherlock looked down at the table, taking a moment to remind himself of the case he’d been planning to review before John had shown up in his flat. 

“Body found in the boot of a car in West Drayton near the M4,” Sherlock said, showing John a few crime scene photos he’d filched from NSY. 

“How did he die?” John asked. 

“That doesn’t matter. It’s where he was found that’s the mystery,” Sherlock said. “This man was reported to have been on Flyaway Airways Flight 814 from Dusseldorf to San Francisco. It was bombed by terrorists en route. Yet he was found, intact with no signs of having been in an exploding passenger jet, in a car boot. He even had all of his documents on him,” Sherlock explained, shuffling through the mess to show John the crime scene photographs. “Passport, boarding pass, even the little crackers they give you on board.”

“So how did he get from the aeroplane to the car?” John asked. 

“Clearly he was never on it,” Sherlock said. “But then why was he reported having boarded it?” 

“And then it exploded…” John said, mostly to himself, his voice so soft it sounded lonely. He turned away from the photographs to look out the window. It had begun to snow. The snowflakes looked like gently falling pearls against the velvet darkness that ensconced Baker Street. As John stared out the window Sherlock stared at him. John cut a wonderful profile, strong and stoic, a man who was used to being and staying in control, but at this exact moment looked so vulnerable that it was as if he might shatter if touched. Still, Sherlock took a chance. He stepped close, breathed deeply to let the warm spice of John’s skin invade his senses, and then he gently reached out and touched John’s arm. 

“It’s seven o’clock. Your world-saving passenger jet has departed,” he whispered. 

“And the world’s still here,” John sighed, his eyes tracing the stars. 

“It’s Coventry, by the way,” Sherlock said, lowering his voice on purpose fascinated by the way John shivered under his touch. 

“I’ve never been. Is it nice?” John joked, turning away from the window and holding Sherlock with his clear, dark blue stare. John’s eyes were Sherlock’s stars and he admired them. “What’s Coventry got to do with anything?” 

“It’s a story. In the Second World War the Allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed because they’d broken the German code but they didn’t want the Germans to know they’d broken the code, so they let it happen anyway.” 

“I don’t follow,” John confessed, and he looked so adorably lost that Sherlock couldn’t begrudge him his funny, boring little brain. 

“If you turn the news on now, I imagine you’ll find that there’s been a bomb on a passenger jet headed to Baltimore. Your flight double oh seven. Likely the American and British governments knew about it, but rather than expose their source of information, they let it happen anyway,” Sherlock explained, confused when John’s face lost all expression, falling into a listless shell. 

“Coventry all over again. The wheel turns,” John breathed. 

“Nothing is ever new,” Sherlock added. 

A sobering silence settled over the two men. It was something quiet and familiar, something that could last a hundred lifetimes. Still reeling from a case well solved and the delicious tension with John, Sherlock decided to celebrate. He moved towards his chair and took up his violin. After plucking at the strings and examining his bow, Sherlock settled the instrument at his chin and began to play. 

He didn’t have a particular composer in mind, only a beat and a melody, something that was exultant but with tones of danger, intrigue and suspense. He played because his heart demanded it, because in his music Sherlock could put in order the feelings that were so chaotic in his mind. His emotions had a voice with the violin and Sherlock never argued when he needed to express himself. 

And as Sherlock was lost in his music, John stared at the photographs on the table before him, his face twisted with devastating conflict. He took out his phone and, hesitantly, began typing out a message. But then he stopped, glanced at Sherlock who was so caught up in his composition that he never noticed the adoring lovelorn gaze John gave him, and his eyes took on a steely determination. He erased the message he’d begun, selected a different number, tapped out a text as quickly as he could and sent it off with nothing but unbendable conviction. When it was done, John stared at his phone, rubbed his thumb along the inscription of the second hand device in a solemn silent goodbye. And then he put the phone down, took a deep breath, and turned away from the window, from the table, from his phone, and watched Sherlock play.

Sherlock let the music carry him. Time didn’t exist when he played. Like the finest perfumes, Sherlock’s music had layers that revealed themselves as he continued to play. The melody spoke of London, of the energy that fuelled the city. It heralded the rush of a fresh mystery and the thrill of the chase, the addiction to the game. It was friendship of the most intimate kind, just two men against the rest of the world. With his violin, Sherlock could say all the things he wanted to say to John but couldn’t. And when he finished it was as if he’d opened up his chest and left his heart exposed for John to see, to either crush in his fist or cradle in the palm of his hand. 

He opened his eyes. 

John was sitting in the chair that Sherlock decided must have always been his, squat and small and directly opposite Sherlock’s. He smiled at John. John smiled back and held out a glass of scotch, inviting Sherlock with nothing more than a come hither wink to join him. Putting his violin away, Sherlock did just that, taking the glass and sitting in his chair, sharing the scotch and fire and John’s company. It felt like a promise finally fulfilled. 

John watched Sherlock drink, studied him, and then put his own drink down on the side table at his chair, untouched. He reached out to Sherlock, and with the practiced grace of the world’s finest seducer, John placed his hand high on Sherlock’s thigh and gave it a slight, undemanding squeeze. Sherlock put his drink down immediately, fascinated by John and that clever hand on his leg. 

“Do you know what you look like when you’re playing?” John asked, his thumb rubbing small circles near Sherlock’s inner thigh. Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to answer, distracted by that crafty thumb, so he shook his head. “You play the violin like you’re touching a lover,” John confessed, smiling when he spotted an enchanting flush colour the tip of Sherlock’s nose. “Tell me, Sherlock, have you ever had anyone? And when I say had, I’m being indelicate.” 

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said, swallowing thickly, lost in John’s heated stare. 

“I’ll be delicate then,” John responded, settling himself on his knees before Sherlock. He made himself snug between Sherlock’s legs and Sherlock closed his knees around John, keeping him exactly where he was. John smiled and reached out to grip one of Sherlock’s hands, his fingers warm. “Let’s have breakfast.” 

“Why?” 

“Might be hungry.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Good.” 

“Why,” Sherlock began, leaning in, eyes tracing the shape of John’s lips, his hand turning in John’s light grasp so that his long fingers caressed the thin, sensitive skin at John’s wrist, “would I want to eat if I wasn’t hungry?” 

He lifted his gaze to John’s eyes, watched as his pupils dilated in the firelight and counted the rapid beats of his pulse. One, two, three… 

“Oh, Mr. Holmes,” John sighed, his own fingers reaching out to press against the veins at Sherlock’s wrist. “Your pulse is fast,” he said, smiling cheekily because he knew what Sherlock was doing, and Sherlock at least looked slightly chagrined at having been caught. He’d been testing the biological signs of attraction, of desire, trying to determine if John fancied him without having to ask, looking for clues like the detective he was. Observing so that he could make the right deduction, the theory fitting all of the facts precisely. 

But whatever it was that existed between them couldn’t be explained by equations or formulas. It was basic, and raw, and perhaps even celestial. All either man could do was let the push of the universe and the tug of their hearts lead them. 

"Tell me, Sherlock, if this was the end, if this was the very last night, would you have breakfast with me?” 

John was so close Sherlock could count the flecks of blue in his eyes. And then he couldn’t see them because John had closed his eyes (or was it Sherlock who had closed his first?) and all he could feel was John’s breath on his lips only half a moment before a glorious plush pressure touched his mouth, moist, a bit chapped, tasting of rich scotch and London at night, rough caresses of dark whiskers scraping at his jaw as John kissed him properly in front of the fire. 

Sherlock kissed him back, chaste and sweet, surprising John more at his gentle tentativeness than the bold, uncoordinated nip he gave his upper lip as they separated. John smiled while Sherlock looked dazed, then curious, then a bit frightened, before his expression settled into a vulnerable open anticipation. It made John’s heart ache to think that Sherlock hadn’t allowed himself to know desire or worse, that he’d never been cherished by a lover. 

If he could, John would cherish Sherlock always, starting with tonight. 

Moving slowly, John kissed Sherlock again, softly at first, then just a little harder, a little sloppier. He coaxed Sherlock’s mouth open and slipped his tongue inside, deliberately brutal as he tasted Sherlock’s breath. Sherlock followed suit, his own tongue a slim and slippery muscle that traced John’s teeth and found a cosy home behind John’s upper lip. When they parted again, John did not hesitate. He kissed his way along Sherlock’s jaw, growled in his ear, and then began lavishing little pecks and tender love bites along his neck. 

“I’m flattered,” John sighed, kissing Sherlock’s Adam’s apple. 

“Hm?” Sherlock replied, far too distracted. He inclined his head further back, pushing his groin against John’s and holding his breath as the sensation of it sent a spark coursing up his spine. 

“You haven’t noticed,” John hummed, continuing to heap attention on Sherlock’s neck. “But my pulse, is – oh!” He gasped as Sherlock thrust against him again. “My pulse is just as fast as yours.” 

And Sherlock stopped his writhing for a moment to look down at the hand he’d forgotten was still clasped in John’s. The pulse was quick, at least eighty-three beats per minute, and Sherlock realized his own heart was beating in time with John’s which made him want him all the more. He wrapped his arms around the man and pulled John against him. 

“Not good?” he asked when John seemed to stiffen. 

“Very, very good,” John assured, only needing to readjust his weight so he could hold himself over Sherlock properly, using the arms of the chair for leverage as he rubbed himself against the man’s groin, long, torturous strokes that left Sherlock whimpering and holding him closer. John was hard. So was Sherlock. And there were far too many clothes in between them. Sherlock reached for the button on John’s jeans but John stopped him, pulling away. 

“No,” Sherlock whinged, wrapping his legs around John’s middle to keep him close. 

“Let me take you to bed,” John reasoned, amused at Sherlock’s eagerness. It was like being a teenager and groping someone for the first time, exciting and a bit dangerous, but mostly it was just exhilarating. 

“Tedious,” Sherlock replied, lowering his hands to squeeze John’s rear. 

“Preferable,” John countered, already beginning to feel a twinge in his back due to the angle he was holding himself at. Much as he was feeling like a horny adolescent about to burst, his body was reminding him that his teen years were long over and if he wanted to enjoy this tryst then he was going to have to find a better location and a better position. 

John kissed Sherlock into submission, using his tongue as persuasion, getting Sherlock to lessen his grip on him enough that he was able to squirm away. Sherlock pouted adorably. 

“Come on, then,” John said, quickly finishing the last of his scotch, urging Sherlock to follow his example, and then putting the empty glasses on the mantle next to the skull. “Show me your bedroom, Mr. Holmes.” 

It was all the instruction Sherlock needed. He practically jumped out of the chair, took John’s hand in his, and raced down the hall into his room. He turned on the light but John turned it off. 

“I want to see you,” Sherlock insisted. 

“And you will,” John promised, his voice quiet, a caress in the darkness. He moved towards the tall windows opposite the bed and pulled back the curtains. Beams of wintry moonlight filled the chamber, casting everything in a gentle silver glow. Sherlock was so naturally pale he was luminescent in the light, like a star. John was darker, but his blond-grey hair weaved with the moonbeams, making him appear ancient and powerful. The Old Man in the Moon come to take one star in the galaxy as his own. 

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice rough with desire. “I want to see you.” 

John nodded and began to undress. He did not rush as he removed each layer of clothing. It wasn’t a sensuous strip tease, something meant to make a man crazy with lust. It was alluring, exciting, like unwrapping a present. It was meant to provoke longing, to make Sherlock want to hold John in an embrace that lasted until the end of time just as much as it was meant to make him hard. 

When John was completely nude, he stood before Sherlock without shame, comfortable in his bare skin and willing to let Sherlock take his time to catalogue everything: every dip and crevasse, every mole, every stretchmark, every hair, every scar. He was surprised when Sherlock reached out and didn’t run his fingers over the bullet wound at his left shoulder. Most of his lovers did, fascinated by the pink puckered tissue that had ended his military career, but not Sherlock. The consulting detective did stare at the scar, studied the grotesque star shape it has left behind, but his hands never reached for it. He touched John’s hip instead, laying his palm flat over the warm skin, letting the fine hairs tickle his fingertips. 

“I’m not very good at this,” Sherlock said, his voice timid. John smiled reassuringly and touched his hand to the man’s cheek. 

“That doesn’t matter to me.” 

Sherlock smiled back and turned his face so he could take John’s thumb into his mouth, sucking on it. John groaned at the image, his imagination going wild with visions of other things Sherlock could take into this mouth. For a man who claimed he wasn’t ‘very good at this’ he was certainly proving otherwise. John helped Sherlock to undress quickly and wasted little time in kissing him again. He pressed Sherlock down on the bed, laid on top of him as if he were a quilt, and began to make love to the man as gently as if he were inducting a virgin into the world of carnal delights. 

For the first time in years, John wanted to make love with someone. Hell, it was the first time in ages he’d actually cared about his partner. Having sex with Sherlock would mean more than a satisfying shag. It would mean everything, and that was terrifying. But John refused to let the moment pass him by. Since getting shot, John had vowed to live his life his way, in the moment with no regrets to hold him back, and not loving Sherlock would be the biggest regret John could imagine. 

And he did love Sherlock, very much. He wanted their first time (Sherlock’s first time) to be sweet and wonderful, the most pleasurable experience of both their lives. So John went slowly, lavishing Sherlock with caresses and kisses, always careful, always protective. 

“I’m not a virgin,” Sherlock said after several long minutes of tender foreplay. John ceased his actions, startled. He raised his head from the nipple he’d been nipping and gave Sherlock a perplexed glance. “I’m not,” he said again, cheeks flushed and a few dark curls sticking to his brow. 

“I…didn’t think you were,” John answered, which was a terrible lie because he had. 

“Inexperienced,” he clarified. “I haven’t in a long time, not since university. It’s distracting.” He emphasized his point by thrusting up, his erection rubbing hard against John’s. 

“Oh…” was all John could manage to say, feeling the first tickles of orgasm beginning to stir. He fought the sensation, needing to make the moment last. 

“Come, John,” Sherlock implored, continuing to thrust unmercifully against his partner. It was all John could do to take his hand and wrap it around the both of them, making the angle better, the friction harder. Both men gasped. 

“Do you like that?” John asked, squeezing his fingers over the heads of their cocks. 

“Yes!” Sherlock panted. “But I’m surprised. You’re being awfully – what’s the word – vanilla for England’s most notorious sex worker.” 

John recognized a challenge when it was issued, and to hear Sherlock say ‘vanilla’ and ‘sex’ was in itself incredibly sexy. Growling, John thrust violently against Sherlock, gripped him very tight, and stuck his free hand in the man’s curly mop and pulled hard. 

“Yes!” Sherlock cried, digging his nails into John’s rump. 

“You like it a bit rough, yeah?” 

“Yes!” 

Chuckling darkly, John knew how to make Sherlock a writhing, wanton mess of passion. He continued to tug on Sherlock’s hair, keeping it in time with his thrusts. He kissed Sherlock harshly, wanting to leave his lips swollen and sensitive. He ran his whiskers over Sherlock’s nipples, brushing repeatedly against the sensitive nubs, leaving small tracks of red welts over his chest. And then he placed his mouth to Sherlock’s neck, nuzzled the spot where his pulse was beating as quickly as a bee’s wings, and bit down on the tender flesh. 

Sherlock gasped and came without any warning, his body going stiff, back arching in the air as he looped his legs around John’s and the air was pushed out of him by the force of his climax. He felt electricity everywhere, from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes. For a suspended moment, Sherlock couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. There was only him and John and it was perfect. 

The image of Sherlock caught up in the throes of orgasm was John’s undoing, and with Sherlock’s warm cum coating his fingers, he stroked himself against his lover’s belly until he came as well, his body going tight then lax as he came, the moment cresting over him like a wave. It felt thrilling and peaceful at the same time. It was beautiful and messy and he’d wished they’d lasted longer, but the rightness of the moment was too powerful to think on much else besides how wonderful everything was. 

Sherlock’s mind was a dizzy, delightful cloud of orgasmic bliss. He couldn’t think of anything except how gratifyingly sated he felt. He didn’t even notice as John licked at the come that had pooled in his bellybutton, his tongue rough like a dog’s as he sketched a trail up Sherlock’s belly, over his right nipple, along his neck, before finally stopping with a chaste peck on the consulting detective’s brow. He smiled against Sherlock’s flushed skin and rolled down to the mattress beside him, letting his body relax in his own afterglow, nothing but their heavy breaths and the beat of their hearts coming between them. 

“If this was ten years ago, I’d be having a cigarette right now,” Sherlock declared. 

“If this was ten years ago, I would join you,” John said. Sherlock chuckled and curved his body around John’s, finding the perfect hollow on the man’s chest to rest his check, winding their legs together until they were a damp collection of limbs. John kissed Sherlock’s nose and played with his curls, not quite tired but not quite awake. It was a lovely, heavy sort of feeling, as if both men had become the dense grey fog that curled along the streets of London. 

“A doctor and a smoker,” Sherlock sighed, his breath teasing along John’s scar. “Always a contradiction.” 

“No,” John replied, shifting so that Sherlock’s ear was resting over his heart. A hot chill ran up Sherlock’s spine as he listened to the steady beat of the strong muscle and tried to match his own heartbeat to John’s, wanting to always be this close to him. “I’m just a man, Sherlock, a person. And people always do silly things, especially for the people they care about.” 

“Yes…” Sherlock sighed, not really hearing him. He let himself drown in the moment, let John’s heartbeat against his ear, and his breath caress his brow, and his fingers in his curls calm his mind in the way only drugs or mysteries had ever been able to satisfy so thoroughly. It was a nice alternative and the company was more than tolerable, not to mention welcome. 

“What’s going on in that big melon of yours?” John asked, whispering as if the vibrations of his voice might break the cocoon that had settled over them. 

“My father,” Sherlock answered, which wasn’t what he’d been thinking about at all, it was simply a spontaneous, unfiltered response. 

“Remind you of him, do I?” John joked, ruffling Sherlock’s hair. 

“Yes,” he sighed, thinking of how often his father had brushed his fingers though his dark curls with the same tender affection John was. “He had a heart attack.” John’s fingers stilled. 

“Christ. Sherlock I’m sorry –” 

“He’s not dead. He’s in hospital now.” 

“Now? How long ago was this?” 

“Two days.” 

“Two da – two days?” John repeated. “Two days as in the day I arrived in your flat two days?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, not able to find the energy to be annoyed with John for repeating himself. “He’s recovering. Mycroft has the best cardiac specialist in the country monitoring him. But I was more troubled by the whole event than I had anticipated. I wanted to forget, so I went out to buy some cocaine.” 

John went stiff under Sherlock, his heart beat increasing and his breathing deeper, as if he were fighting to constrain a lion, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t judge or jump to conclusions. He was waiting for Sherlock to finish, to decide if ranting and raving was the way to proceed with this revelation. It made Sherlock adore John all the more for his silent understanding. 

“I was going to, but then you texted me. You sent that silly ‘Happy New Year’ and it was as if everything went quiet. That’s what it’s like in my brain, a rocket tearing itself to pieces on the launch pad, and it’s almost impossible to make it quiet. Mysteries work, and so do drugs, but you work too, John. It’s…” 

“Nice?” 

“Surprising,” Sherlock amended. “But I suppose nice as well.” 

John hugged Sherlock close, tight and cloistering, as if he was afraid to let Sherlock go, afraid that if he did he might never see him again. Sherlock returned the embrace, hoping John understood what he was trying to say without speaking a word. He wanted John to stay. He had no reason to leave, not when he had a chair at 221 B and a second room if he wanted it, and mysteries and danger and Sherlock. His hug was a plea for John to stay. John’s embrace felt like a good answer. 

When they released on another and began to settle, John shuffled to get out of the bed. 

“Where are you going?” 

“To get a flannel. We need to clean up.” 

“No we don’t,” Sherlock insisted stubbornly, not having to pout too long before John rolled his eyes and dismissed his plans, cuddling back in the bed with Sherlock. Both men reclined on their backs, arms touching and playing a lazy version of footie under the sheets. They laid in silence for a long while, Sherlock tracing the veins in John’s arm as he spoke quietly. “Why do you keep asking me about breakfast?” 

“Why do you never answer me about breakfast?” John countered, chuckling when Sherlock pinched his side. “Because that’s what people do when they fancy someone. Haven’t you ever had a partner wine and dine you?” 

“No,” Sherlock answered with such earnest sincerity that it made John want to cry. 

“So you’ve never had a boyfriend feed you up?” he asked, then cringed because he hadn’t been able to think of something better to say. He could feel the incredulous look Sherlock was giving him, as if to say ‘ _you poor idiot_ ,’ so he was surprised when, instead of chastising him, Sherlock rolled towards him so that they were pressed together shoulder to ankle and leaned in very close. 

“Is that what boyfriends do?” Sherlock wondered, biting at John’s quickening pulse. “Feed you up?” 

“Umm…” John started before moaning when Sherlock’s hand ventured across his abdomen and over his hip. “No girlfriend, then, either?” 

“Not really my area,” Sherlock said. 

“That’s fine,” John sighed, his pulse starting to raced, that old familiar, lovely twisting beginning to coil low in his belly as Sherlock’s fingers played in the coarse hairs around his naval, dancing lower, and lower, and lower. “Oh...I’m going to shut up now.” 

“I think that’s for the best,” Sherlock muttered and continued his own artful seduction. It was a bit uncoordinated, and Sherlock didn’t have the finesse John did when it came to getting someone off, but he was eager and determined and in the end, John screamed something that vaguely resembled ‘brilliant’ and ‘Sherlock’ when he came. 

Panting and tired, the two men didn’t bother with flannels or nightclothes. They curled together under the blankets and listened to each other breathing. John fell asleep first, his slumber encouraged by the rhythmic stroking of Sherlock’s fingers in his hair.  Sherlock didn’t cease his actions and continued to pat John’s hair. He used to do the same thing to Redbeard’s ruby mane when he was a boy, and although he imagined John would be a bit put out if he knew he was being compared to a dog (even a beloved one), Sherlock felt the same desperate, intense devotion to John that he’d once had for Redbeard. His first mate, his first true friend, his first heartbreak. 

“I’ve always assumed,” Sherlock whispered, his voice fading, heavy with sleep, “that caring…love was a dangerous disadvantage.” 

Redbeard had taught Sherlock the joy of love and the devastation it caused when it was ripped away. Moving to stroke along John’s jaw, letting the man’s rough stubble tickle his fingers, Sherlock sighed, content. John was different. There would never be anything wrong with loving John. And with that soothing thought, Sherlock fell asleep, his hand still cupping John’s jaw. After a long while, John stirred from his false sleep and looked at Sherlock. He watched him, tracing the man’s long features with his blue gaze, committing every freckle and hair to memory. John counted Sherlock’s breaths and treasured them, determined to always remember this moment, to keep it with him for the rest of his days, hoping that time would not dim the image of this magnificent mad man. 

Sighing, John turned his head to kiss each of Sherlock’s fingertips, the consulting detective’s voice ringing in his mind. 

‘… _love was a dangerous disadvantage_.’ 

Staring into the night, John couldn’t help but agree.

 

* * *

 

It was the total silence that woke Sherlock. 

He had been sleeping deeply and the sudden shift from asleep to awake was disorienting. His body ached deliciously, the memories of the night before still fresh and lovely in his mind. He reached a hand out for John, seeking the comfort of his lover’s warm body and perhaps talk him into some lazy just-woke-up sex, but all he found were cold sheets. Sitting up, Sherlock stared at the empty space. His mind was often groggy upon waking from a well-earned sleep after a days’ long case, never mind an evening of blissful sex. It wasn’t any wonder that Sherlock’s mind was operating on average intelligence levels for a whole two minutes before the full force of his intellect returned, his senses as sharp as always. 

John wasn’t in the bed. Not in the bedroom at all, actually. The sheets were cold, but there was a faint trace of John’s scent that lingered on his pillow. So John hadn’t been in the bed for a while, two hours at least. Disturbed, Sherlock listened. He didn’t hear the shower running, so John wasn’t there. Perhaps he was in the kitchen making that breakfast he was always going on about. It was well past morning and the pair hadn’t eaten anything after solving the case, plus they had certainly worked up an appetite. 

Eager, and a touched panicked, Sherlock wrapped a bed sheet around himself and walked towards the kitchen. It was empty. There was no John, no breakfast. That was more than a bit odd. It was alarming. Finding his phone, Sherlock sent out a rapid fire text to John, telling him to return to Baker Street if convenient and if inconvenient to come all the same. But his message bounced back instantly, his phone saying that the contact he was after was not available. 

Now dread began to vibrate all around Sherlock’s heart, a horrible leaden feeling sinking low in his stomach as his mind quickly sorted the facts and began to draw the only possible conclusion. But before he could allow himself to believe the very worst, Sherlock heard a voice. Two voices, in fact, both muffled, one male, one female, and coming from beneath his feet. 

Of course! Mrs. Hudson was having John for company. His landlady was a notorious gossip and no doubt she had snatched John up before the poor man had been able to make himself a cup of tea. The facts fit the theory (most of the facts, not _all_ of them, but Sherlock ignored that; he had to), and with an impatient stride, Sherlock started down the stairs towards 221 A. 

But before he reached the landing, he stopped. The voices were clearer now. Mrs. Hudson had asked her guest if they fancied a cuppa and the man (older voice, scratchy, accented) answered in the affirmative. He took his tea with honey and lemon, a travesty Sherlock knew John would never request. It was Mr. Chatterjee from next door visiting Mrs. Hudson, not John. And if John wasn’t in 221 B or downstairs with Mrs. Hudson, then he wasn’t on Baker Street at all. 

In a defeated daze, Sherlock walked back up to his flat and stood in the middle of his cold, dark sitting room. He felt drained, and so weak he dropped his sheet to the floor, the only amour he had pooling at his feet as he stood at the scene of his seduction and came to terms with his final deduction. Because _all_ the facts fit only one, terrible theory. 

John had left him. 

He’d befriended him and seduced him and then he’d just left without even the courtesy of a ‘thanks for the shag’ note. It was as if he’d never existed, and if not for the two empty tumblers on the mantle Sherlock was almost inclined to believe he had imagined John from the start. The flat felt hollow, bereft, and as the truth of what had happened weighed down on Sherlock he felt his mind begin to splinter. It was like an engine racing out of control, and John, his own wonderful conductor, was gone, leaving the train to race into a wild cacophony of panic and despair. 

Sherlock curled his fingers into his palms, his nails biting into skin, and his body began to tremble with the effort to keep his grief inside. He felt the burning sting of tears pinch his eyes and the painful strain of his lungs as he could feel himself about to start hyperventilating. But that would be too much loss of control and Sherlock refused to let John have that sort of power over him. 

He closed his eyes and banished the tears, forced himself to take very deep, very agonizing breaths, and retreated to his Mind Palace. He tore it apart, took down everything that was John’s, his smile, his laugh, the way he smelled, the way he made love, his horrid jumpers, the way he took his tea, Sherlock collected it all and stomped everything down into a shoebox. He closed the lid and placed the box in a small cupboard in one of the largest wings of his Mind Palace. He put the box on the highest shelf, in the darkest corner, right beside Redbeard and Victor Trevor where he was certain never to go looking for it. 

It could have been minutes or hours, but when he was through, Sherlock opened his eyes. The flat was empty, lonely, and Sherlock was utterly defeated. He turned away from it, from the fireplace and the two empty tumblers and John’s chair and made his way down the hall. 

Sherlock went back into his bedroom just because he was tired. He locked his door just because he didn’t want Mrs. Hudson to bother him, and he turned off his phone just because he knew Lestrade would ring him to complain about getting a statement. He fell into bed and pulled the sheets over his head just because he was cold, and he buried his face on John’s side of the mattress just because it still smelled like him and Sherlock found it a soothing, pleasant scent to fall asleep to.

And he wept into John’s pillow until he had no more tears left, just because.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happens in 221 B stays in 221 B ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	9. This is Your Heart

“Honestly, Sherlock you need to eat something,” Mrs. Hudson chided as she looked at the bowl of cold porridge she had left for him hours ago. She threw a worried look in his direction, but Sherlock ignored her. “Aren’t you tired of dissecting that hedgehog, dear?” Still no response. “A cuppa?” 

That question did garner a tilt of Sherlock’s head, which Mrs. Hudson understood to mean ‘ _if you must_ ,’ and so she did. She left Sherlock for a moment (Mrs. Hudson refused to make tea in Sherlock’s kettle ever since she’s discovered that’s where he’d been keeping toes, even though it was only the one time), giving the consulting detective a moment let out a long sigh. 

Even though it had been one week since John had left, everything still felt out of place, as if something was missing. It was a feeling Sherlock couldn’t shake and he was perpetually irritated because of it. Worst still, his brain was rattling with a sombre, aching melody that begged to be brought to life on the violin, but Sherlock knew John was the genesis of this composition and on that principle alone he refused to play. He couldn’t bear to give John even a single note of life in 221 B. It would only make his spectre haunt the flat longer. 

Feeling a headache coming on, Sherlock ruffled his hands through his hair and stepped away from the hedgehog he had been cutting into with savage relish. This really was unacceptable. While Sherlock could boast a great many epic spats of melancholy, this particular dark mood was something very different than his usual sulks. This hollow ache that drilled deep into his chest and radiated outwards was heartbreak and yet it was something so much more than that. It wasn’t that Sherlock’s heart had been broken, it had been repaired, mended with the gentlest of doctor’s hands and then shredded piece by piece by those same hands he trusted and then abandoned as if he’d never mattered at all. It was strange, but Sherlock felt as if a piece of himself had disappeared along with John, and now he was less than he had been. Which was entirely preposterous, of course, but even knowing that everything he was experiencing was nothing more than chemicals and hormones didn’t separate Sherlock from the painful turmoil he was feeling. Love really was a dangerous disadvantage and John Watson had provided the final proof. 

“…ody of the victim has been removed from Grange Hill Station and police are asking for any witnesses to come forward. And now, back to our main story, the tragic bombing of British Airways Flight 007.” 

The dull drone of the news anchor managed to penetrate though Sherlock’s chaotic thoughts and gave the man some pause. He left the kitchen and stood in front of his television (Mrs. Hudson must have turned it on earlier when she’d been fussing over him). He wasn’t in a particular mood to hear about John’s world saving aeroplane, but Sherlock could never deny his raw curiosity, even if it did make the ache in his chest strain. He turned up the volume. 

“One week ago the passenger jet disappeared from radar at approximately 1800 hours. The Air Accidents Investigation Branch has confirmed that the aeroplane was destroyed by a bomb which detonated when the aircraft was flying over the Atlantic Ocean. All three hundred and six passengers and crew were killed. The terrorist cell E.L.I. has since issued a statement claiming responsibility for the attack. This is the same group responsible for the bombing of Flyaway Airways Flight 814 this past November where one hundred and three people were killed.” 

‘ ** _Wrong!_** ’ Sherlock’s mind snarled, jolting the consulting detective violently from his apathetic shroud. The anchor had said one hundred and three people perished on Flight 814 but that wasn’t true. One hundred and three people had certainly died, but only one-hundred and two of them had been on Flight 814. One man had died somewhere else and was found in the boot of an abandoned car outside of Heathrow. Rushing to the table, Sherlock found the photographs of the crime scene in question, remembering how he had shown them to John that night…and now John’s world saving passenger jet had fallen victim to a similar explosion by the same terrorist cell with the (nearly) identical results. 

‘ _It could be a coincidence_ ,’ he rationalized. 

‘ _The universe is rarely so lazy, Sherlock. You know this_ ,’ the voice that was so vexingly like Mycroft’s answered condescendingly from the depths of his subconscious. And then it all came back to him in a rush of sound and light. 

‘ _Bond Air is a go, that’s decided. Check with the Coventry lot,_ ’ the memory of Mycroft echoed. Bond Air (a code for the doomed Flight 007 – Mycroft had always had a deplorable admiration for Ian Fleming, even had a first print signed copy of _Casino Royale_ in his library), truly was Coventry all over again. Mycroft was the puppet master behind the whole event, no doubt, likely helped by the American government which explained the CIA being at John’s… 

…and John. He had gotten himself caught up in the middle of this international affair. As The Soldier, John had collected tomes of information on his infamous and illustrious clientele, enough to topple whole governments if he wanted to, but he didn`t. All John had wanted was to decipher the email with the seat allocations to appease whatever power was lording over him. But why would this man, the one John insisted would destroy Sherlock if given the chance, why would he care about a doomed aircraft? 

“Didn’t you hear the doorbell?” Mrs. Hudson grumbled as she arrived in the sitting room. She was carrying a mug of tea, and also a slim, flat brown paper wrapped package. Sherlock released the photo of the dead man, not realizing that he had crumpled it as his mind began to whirl through the possible demises of John, and looked at the package. He could see there was no address on it, only a single rectangle of stiff white card. 

Ignoring Mrs. Hudson as she grumbled about his manners, Sherlock snatched the package out of her hands and felt his heart leap into his throat. There was no mystery behind what the package was. Its shape, weight, and the uniform way it had been wrapped loudly proclaimed the parcel to be a laptop. But the card taped to the package, that was what was truly interesting. 

 **Mr. Holmes**  

There was only one person who called him that. With an eagerness he couldn’t be bothered to hide and a dread he didn’t want to acknowledge, Sherlock turned the card over. 

 **Sorry about breakfast**  

And that single sentiment was all it took to knock John’s box off of that dark closet shelf in Sherlock’s Mind Palace and spill its contents all across every surface, filling his mind, his heart, his spirit with John, John, _John_! 

Every nerve ending in Sherlock’s body ignited with hot, irrational, uncontrollable rage, fueled only by his fear that John was lost to him forever. He wanted answers and he knew where he would get them. The monogram in the bottom right corner of the card was all the invitation Sherlock needed. Tucking the laptop under his arm, Sherlock rushed out of 221 B, leaving his coat and Mrs. Hudson behind. When he walked onto the pavement there was a black car waiting for him which only invigorated Sherlock’s ire, but he got in all the same. The driver didn’t speak a word and simply began to drive, navigating London’s streets expertly and before long, Sherlock was dropped off outside of the last place he wanted to be. 

The Diogenes Club. 

Without any preamble or tact, he burst through the doors of his brother’s club like a wolverine. 

“Mycroft!” he shouted, distressing several of the stodgy old men who had been innocently reading and drinking in the main room. They stared at the wild man who had stormed into their silent sanctuary, scandalized at the scene. “Mycroft!” Sherlock repeated. “Where are you hiding your arcane, asinine, fat arse?!” 

A door at the end of a long corridor just off the main room opened and Sherlock stomped into it without invitation, slamming the door behind him. 

“Was that really necessary?” Mycroft asked, sitting behind his desk and looking so much like a chiding parent that it made Sherlock want to tie his brother down and force feed him custard tarts until yellow spewed out of his ears. 

“Where’s John?” Sherlock demanded, his voice as serious as a straight line. Mycroft did not shy away from his little brother’s angry glower. He met it head on with his own stony expression. 

“It’s going to take several bottles of Talisker to appease the men you’ve offended here, brother mine.” 

“Damn those draconian buffoons and damn you!” Sherlock cried, slamming the laptop down on Mycroft’s desk, getting a bit of a reaction out of his brother as Mycroft jumped just a tad and looked momentarily stricken at the laptop’s abuse. “Where. Is. John?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Mycroft –” 

“I don’t know, Sherlock,” Mycroft repeated, sounding both terrifying and consoling at the same time. Huffing impatiently, Sherlock sat in a buttery dark leather chair opposite his brother and waited, unrestrained, for answers. Tapping the paper clad laptop, Mycroft sighed. “I knew that doctor would be the making of you, or make you worse than ever. When you came back from Belgravia with a concussion and the Americans after you, I knew it was only a matter of time.” 

“Why did he come to you?” Sherlock demanded, a ferocious jealousy dragon squeezing his heart. 

“Because it was never about you,” Mycroft answered, wholly unsympathetic. “From the very beginning it was all about Bond Air.” 

Sherlock grunted and rolled his eyes, never impressed with his elder brother’s need to be omnipotent about everything in their lives. Especially when he wasn’t, and especially when it came to John Watson. 

“He came to me. Sent me a text saying he wished to negotiate. I had a car pick him up on Baker Street the morning after your romp along the South Bank.” 

“Get on with it.” 

“He surprised me. The man’s not as idiotic as I’d originally believed. He’d deduced it all, you see. He had most of it wrong, but let’s not be picky. He did guess that Bond Air was connected to Flight 814, though not on his own. He was privy to some information from his employer and once he’d seen the photograph of the man in the car boot he put the pieces together.” Sherlock didn’t say a word. He only glared, which Mycroft took as a sign to continue. “I’m shocked you hadn’t come to the same conclusion sooner,” he drawled as he rose to pour himself a scotch. “You’ve been stumbling round the fringes of this one for ages. So many missing bodies, and then you find one in a car boot, one that ought to have been destroyed.”

Sherlock snorted derisively, mortified because, as the puzzle began to assemble in his mind, each piece snapping together to create the larger picture, he knew Mycroft was right. 

“None of the passengers on either jet were alive, were they? A flight of the dead.” 

“Elegant solution, don’t you think?” Mycroft bragged, swirling the scotch in his glass, staring into the amber depths as if it held the secrets to the universe. “No one is harmed, E.L.I. believes they’ve struck democracy a fatal blow, the Germans and the Americans are in our debt, and our agents may continue their work. 

“I don’t care about any of this,” Sherlock growled. “I want John, now.” 

“Did you know that besides a disturbing addiction to danger you and John Watson have something else in common?” Mycroft took a long, languorous sip of his fine liquor, pausing for dramatic effect and vexing Sherlock as if he were dragging his nails over a chalkboard. “You are both little brothers.” 

The revelation did and didn’t surprise Sherlock. He chose to keep his expression controlled, neutral, and silently demanded Mycroft continue. 

“Ms. Harriet Watson. A very troubled woman who self-medicates with alcohol to the point it ruined her marriage and drove her younger brother away into the seedy world of sex work. Then, a little over a year ago she took out a rather substantial loan from some dangerous people to feed her habit. When she couldn’t pay them back her loan went into repayment to a James Moriarty. I know you’ve heard of him.” 

Of course Sherlock knew who James Moriarty was. One couldn’t be as involved with the criminal element as Sherlock was and not know of the Napoleon of crime. Moriarty was a spider in the centre of a web, a criminal grid that stretched across the whole of the world. There wasn’t a noteworthy criminal alive who didn’t owe a debt to James Moriarty. He sold his services as a consulting criminal for a steep price and always delivered because if any of the pieces of his game didn’t do as he commanded then the consequences were ghastly. He was a whisper, a shadow, the creature that waited for you in the dark…and John had dared to flash a light into the blackness and meet whatever monster lurked there. 

“E.L.I. hired Moriarty.” Sherlock said. 

“Yes.” 

“And when he learned that John’s clientele included some of the highest echelons of the British government, he used Harriet Watson’s debt to him as collateral, forcing John to cooperate in his scheme.” 

“Simple as that.” 

And it was simple. Blackmail was one of the most common, the most pedestrian of crimes, and yet it made good people do outlandish things. But then, people always did do silly things to protect their secrets, even more so when they were protecting the ones they loved. Someone like John, who not only loved wholeheartedly but who also was a natural protector, would likely do anything to save the ones he cared about, even an estranged alcoholic sister. 

“He told John to target that MOD man,” Sherlock deduced. 

“Yes,” Mycroft confirmed, “and he took that email with the seat allocations not knowing what it was but hoping it would be enough to satisfy Moriarty. When it wasn’t, he had to change his tactics…

 

* * *

 

_“Sherlock has a fan,” John said seriously, standing near the hearth, watching the mantle clock. The declaration was startling to the elder Holmes. He knew his brother had many acquaintances, colleagues, associates, enemies, and fawning idiotic admirers, but not a fan. “James Moriarty is obsessed with him.”_

_Mycroft penetrated John with a pinning hawk-like glare. The way The Soldier had spoken made it sound as if Sherlock was in danger._

_“He’s the one who told me to use Sherlock to decipher the email,” John continued. “Even told me how to do it, how to play the game. A promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption, then give him a puzzle and watch him dance.” John huffed an unamused, tired chuckle. “He was right. Sherlock solved that email for me in less than 8 seconds.”_

_It chilled Mycroft to hear John outline Moriarty’s instructions. They were too true, the perfect snares to set, and one by one as they snapped around him, Sherlock would be caught and pulled apart._

_“If he’s given the chance, he’ll destroy Sherlock.”_

_“And you care what happens to my brother?” Mycroft asked, receiving an irked glower from the little man in his office, his blue eyes decrying ‘_ I’m here, aren’t I? _’ Shuffling, John moved to open the duffle bag he’d brought with him, taking out his laptop and watching Mycroft as he placed the machine on the desk between them. Mycroft stared at the offering, surprised that John was showing his hand so quickly, and suspicious of what demands The Soldier would make._

 _“On this laptop I’ve got secrets, pictures, and scandals that could topple your whole world. You have no idea how much havoc I can cause, but there is one way to stop me and I’m handing it to you on a silver platter. Get Harry out of Moriarty’s web, get Moriarty away from Sherlock, and I’ll give you everything,” John said, an adroit negotiator. The demands were doable, almost too simple._

_“And what about you?” Mycroft asked._

_“I’ll worry about myself, thanks,” John replied before leaning close, unafraid of Mycroft and his desk and his power. “I don’t have much faith in you,” John began. “You couldn’t even protect your agents from Moriarty. But you’re the only man I know who is as preoccupied with Sherlock as he is with an equal amount of resource and I like to think that brotherhood trumps psychopaths every time. You’ll get Moriarty, you’ll lock him up in the darkest, most isolated cell you can find and you’ll throw away the key. And you’ll get Harry and keep her safe. And when I’m sure that you have done these two things, I’ll give you my laptop, I’ll give you the passcode, and I’ll walk away.”_

_The deal was far too good to be true. It made Mycroft suspicious, but there was nothing but sincerity in John’s eyes._

_“Why are you doing this?” he asked, curious, cautious._

_“Because Sherlock is the best man I have ever known and I won’t see him broken.”_

_“And you think your abandoning him won’t break him?” Mycroft challenged, knowing that Sherlock cared about this man, knowing that it would cripple his brother in ways the drugs never could if John Watson left._

_Did John really not see how important he’d become to Sherlock? Despite his warnings, Mycroft had been aware of the texts John and Sherlock had exchanged over the last year. And he’d watched, gobsmacked, as Sherlock became a better man for his knowing John, even when they weren’t even on the same continent. While Mycroft could never bring himself to care about anyone that wasn’t Sherlock, he knew Sherlock did harbour sentiment for a small select group of individuals he kept close by. Sherlock needed people in a way Mycroft did not. Sherlock needed John in a way Mycroft could only understand from a clinical distance._

_Still, Mycroft needed John too, in a much different way and for reasons far larger and more important than his little brother’s feelings. Rising from his desk, Mycroft reached out and shook John’s hand, their fingers clenched over the laptop. Then he took out his phone and began making the necessary calls…_

 

* * *

 

 “Arranging for Ms. Watson’s safety was simple enough,” Mycroft explained, taking another sip of his scotch. “We killed her. Threw her body onto the Central Line where she was stuck by an oncoming train. Still, her ex-wife was able to make a positive identification despite the face being unrecognizable.” 

“And where is she now?” Sherlock asked. 

Mycroft consulted his pocket watch before answering. “Halfway to a rehabilitation clinic in Canada where she will stay for the next two years under the care of the best agents that I have.” 

“And Moriarty?” Sherlock asked. 

Mycroft pretended he didn’t hear and finished his drink, downing the hot amber liquid in a long, undignified gulp. His silence was his answer, and much as Sherlock relished a good argument with his brother, he simply felt too drained to even muster a proper insult. 

“Well go on then,” he said, tearing the paper off the laptop and shoving the machine at Mycroft. “You got what you wanted. Open it.” 

“I can’t. I don’t have the passcode,” Mycroft replied. 

“Of course you do. That was part of your deal with John. You met his demands, and so he gave you the laptop and his passcode.”

“But he didn’t give me the passcode,” Mycroft insisted, catching Sherlock’s curiosity. “Once I had completed my end of the bargain, Doctor Watson asked me to send the laptop to you. He said you would know what the passcode was.” 

“Why would he say that?” Sherlock snapped. 

“Because, dear brother, Doctor Watson, for some inexplicable reason, has decided to trust you. I understand that is no simple feat for the man, so you should be flattered. He has faith in your skills. He believes in you.” 

Sherlock felt numb, crushed, and couldn’t even bring himself to move when Mycroft offered him a drink (he wished it was a cigarette).  He simply sat in the chair and wished the world away. He felt hollow, as if he were missing all of his insides. The pain was more than unbearable, it was destructive. Even sitting in the quiet of Mycroft’s office, Sherlock could feel parts of him tearing, bits of his mind fracturing as he tried to reconcile his emotions for John before and after this revelation. 

He found he still felt the same. 

He still wanted John, wanted John by his side, and in his flat, and drinking his tea, and sharing his cases, and sleeping in his bed. It didn’t matter that John had been working for Moriarty. It had been under duress to save someone he loved. Sherlock would do far worse than that to protect John, and he wanted John back with him so he could tell him. 

He turned the laptop on, waited as the computer hummed to life, and stared at the log-in screen, the four blank spaces taunting him like breadcrumbs on a path. The screen still flashed that he had only one chance left to input the correct passcode. One guess and no room for error. It was a hateful situation. And as he stewed in his freefall of thoughts, Mycroft watched, angry that he couldn’t help, remorseful because this was partly his fault. 

“I drove you into his path,” he said gently, talking to Sherlock in the same soft tone he’d used when they were children and had shared a room, staying up late into the night reading each other stories from Father’s collection. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” 

“Why?” Sherlock asked, not knowing what he was asking for, not even expecting an answer, simply needing to get the question out into the air and let it hang like a curtain. 

“Love is a vicious motivator,” Mycroft answered. “It makes people do silly things.” 

Sherlock nodded, agreeing, staring at the monitor, at the blank spaces teasing him the same way John’s smile did. 

And then, like a blinding bolt of lightning, Sherlock had it! 

‘ _People always do silly things_.’ 

“Yes, they do,” Sherlock concurred with the phantom voice only he could hear. The world around him melted away into a dull drone until all that was left was Sherlock, the laptop, and the ghost of John at his side, clad in the ugly oatmeal jumper he’d been wearing the day they’d met, smiling at him as if he raised the sun. 

‘ _I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes_.’ 

“It’s another safe,” Sherlock said to the apparition. John just smiled. 

‘ _This laptop is my life._ ’ 

“But it’s more than that, isn’t it? This is your heart.” John continued to smile, urging Sherlock on, the memory of his voice rattling the rafters of Sherlock’s Mind Palace as it began to quake under the revealing deduction. “You could have chosen a random number, but that’s not the sort of man you are. You are always wearing a different suit of armour to protect what you really are.” 

‘ _I’m just a man, Sherlock, a person. And people always do silly things..._ ’ 

And the silliest thing of all was to let your heart rule your head. 

‘… _especially for the people they care about._ ’ 

“And you care about me,” Sherlock declared, boldly and without fear of rejection, because the theory fit the facts. John had flirted with him, teased him, saved him from himself, ran though London by his side, made him tea, made him come, and in the end he put his life in jeopardy to protect him. John Watson cared about Sherlock Holmes, perhaps even loved him, and so the key to his life, to the laptop, was to go straight to the heart. 

‘ _Go on_ ,’ John’s shadow whispered coyly, leaning in close to breathe a phantom kiss against Sherlock’s ear, ‘ _impress a bloke._ ’ 

And Sherlock typed each key with sharp, cutting finality. His last chance at the passcode, his only hope of discovering if he ever really knew John Watson at all. 

 **2 8 0 1**  

Four numbers with profound meeting for only two people in the whole world. The twenty-eighth day of the first month. The day John and Sherlock had met. 

The screen did not buzz a warning, and the motherboard didn’t explode. Instead, the hard drive hummed to life and the desktop screen began to load. The numbers were right. The combination to all of the secrets in John Watson’s heart was a day he treasured and wanted to remember. Because John Watson, The Solider, the doctor, the sex worker, the reluctant criminal, the lover, the friend, was, above all else, just a simple man who valued simple things, had simple dreams, simple wants and simple hopes. 

And Sherlock wanted to share in all of them. 

‘ _That…was amazing_ ,’ the shade of John stated proudly. 

“You made it too simple,” Sherlock chided, flushing and flattered. “Three in five people use a date familiar to them as a passcode.” 

John’s shade laughed, whole and hearty and just the way Sherlock remembered it. 

‘ _Smartarse_ ,’ he said fondly and for the first time since he’d woken up in 221 B alone, Sherlock felt whole. But then the walls of his Mind Palace began to fade back into reality and the memory of John turned to vapour. As quickly as he’d been transported to the depths of his mind, Sherlock was back in Mycroft’s stuffy office, his brother staring at him patiently on the opposite side of the desk, John’s laptop between them. 

“Well done, Sherlock,” Mycroft congratulated, reaching over to take the computer from his brother. “I’ll see that this gets to the right people. The doctor’s sacrifice won’t have been in vain.” 

“I’m going to find John,” Sherlock declared shamelessly. He took a moment to soak in the disapproving frown that marked his brother’s face before rising from his chair, a strong blazing fire ignited in his chest. He knew what he had to do, should have started doing it earlier if not for the strop he’d gotten himself into. But that was over now and John would forgive him anyway. Because John cared about Sherlock and Sherlock cared about John and that would be the only proof the consulting detective would ever need. “I’m going to bring him back.” 

And with that bold declaration, Sherlock marched out of the Diogenes Club, each step bringing him a little bit closer to John. 

Only when Sherlock was half way back to Baker Street did Mycroft allow himself a small, triumphant smile. Opening a drawer in his desk, Mycroft took out a single piece of white card, the numbers 2 8 0 1 printed on the surface in John’s rushed doctor’s scrawl. 

John Watson. A doctor and a soldier, a notorious sex worker and the bravest (stupidest) man Mycroft was certain walked the face of the earth. He’d kept his word of course, because that’s who John was. As soon as he’d been assured of his sister’s safety and Moriarty’s capture he had presented Mycroft with the passcode, left his laptop and scrawled a short message for Sherlock before taking his leave of England. 

But Mycroft wasn’t a stupid man, or even a brave one for that matter. He was terrified of what Sherlock might become if left bereft of his John. After all, Father’s heart attack had nearly driven the thirty-five year old back to drugs. There was no doubt that heartbreak would eventually see Sherlock return to substance abuse, likely to be more violent and volatile than he’d ever been before, and Mycroft refused to allow that to happen. 

So, he played the game. 

He sent Sherlock the laptop, he claimed John had issued the challenge of solving the passcode (it had only taken Mycroft eighteen seconds to deduce the sentiment behind the numbers; he was certain Sherlock would draw the same conclusions, but it would take him at least one minute of wandering through his Mind Palace to do so), told Sherlock that John had walked away forever, and then he watched as life returned to his little brother’s eyes. 

Smiling to himself, Mycroft crumbled the card with the passcode on it and threw it into the fire. He poured himself another drink and procured a single dark truffle from the box he kept secreted at the bottom of his desk. He took a tiny indulgent bite, letting the bittersweet cocoa coat his tongue and bring out hidden depths of the scotch. It was a delicious sin that would go straight to his hips, but Mycroft felt he deserved a treat for being so clever. 

The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption. 

Then give him a puzzle and watch him dance. 

And Sherlock was such a marvellous dancer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I grow up, I hope I'm even half as excellent at manipulating my little brother as Mycroft Holmes.


	10. Good Morning

John licked his lips. They were cracked, dry, and tasted like the desert. His shoulders burned, but then he had been bound with his arms behind a tent pole for almost three days so the fact he still had any feeling in them at all was a surprise. His feet had fallen asleep, though, and hurt like the devil as his nerve endings strained, pin pricks coursing from the tips of his toes all the way up into his calves. Add to that the fact he hadn’t had clean water to drink or more than a stale bun to eat in days and a was kept blinded by a dirty, hole ridden sack his captors had put over his head, and John imagined he must look just as wretched as he felt. 

He hadn’t even been able to last six months before E.L.I. had taken him prisoner. The price on his head must have been gargantuan. Moriarty wouldn’t promise anything less than the world to get revenge on a game piece that had gone rogue. The bounty had likely gone out before Mycroft had been able to capture the psychopath. There never had been any real hope of escape for John, not even from the start. Perhaps it had been naïve of John to run away to the desert, but feeling the noose tightening round his neck with every step he took away from England made him determined to do some good with whatever days he had left. 

Faking the military credentials was easy enough, and he’d enlisted as a Canadian medic rather than risk being recognized by anyone from the British army. He was Corporal Jacques Coulombe now, and for three months and one week he had saved eighty-seven lives, soldiers and civilians, on and off the battlefield. His hands never wavered, though he refrained from performing surgery and strictly worked triage, and if his comrades noticed that he sometimes favoured his right side when they knew he was a southpaw, the never said anything. It had felt great to be doing something helpful, to be able to use his body in service of a greater good instead of how he’d chosen to use it (and let it be used) for so long. 

But John knew he could never go back to sex work, not after Sherlock. Sex with anyone else was simply unappealing now that he knew how Sherlock tasted, how he liked to be touched and kissed, and how wonderfully wanton and free he sounded just before he came. 

He would never get to have that again, but at least he had that one night. It made the knowledge that he was about to be executed easier to bear. 

John had no regrets. Not for his past, for the right and wrong he’d done, for the selfish and selfless acts he’d committed, for the way he’d chosen to live. Because the point was that he had lived. He’d had adventure and danger, he’d had the battlefield and the South Bank, he’d tangled with the world’s greatest minds, faced the wrath of the British Government, he’d experimented with every position in the Kama Sutra and he’d begged for mercy more than once. He’d made friends, made enemies, lost on sure bets and won on wild cards. He’d seen the world (well, three continents) and he’d been able to spend a few days in his beloved London one last time before exiling himself to the barren sand dunes of Karachi. 

He’d had 221 B, and a chair by the fire, a drink in his hand, and been serenaded with a violin. And for one night, he’d had the man he loved in his arms. Truly, how could anyone regret that? 

He heard the voices of his captors coming towards him, knew that it must be time, so John took a deep, calming breath, and let them take him. They were rough when they untied him from the post and they didn’t bother to bound him again as they hoisted John to his feet and walked him blindly out of the tent. It was hard for John to keep up with their solid, wide strides. The pins-and-needles sensation crawled up his legs like a thousand stinging ants. Each step was agony, his strength gone. When they were outside, the men tugged the sack off John’s head and the shock of feeling deliciously cool air strike his skin made John gasp. He blinked several times before his eyes adjusted to the light. 

The scene before him was grim. 

They were deep in the desert, likely days away from the nearest city and even further from any sort of help. Several trucks, most of them repurposed military armour vehicles stolen from the United States, surrounded them. Over two dozen E.L.I. militia circled the area and all but one had guns slung over their shoulders. The tallest in the crowd was dressed head to toe in black robes, a veil covering his face save for his eyes and in his hands, he held a long curved sabre that looked deathly sharp even from a distance. 

So a beheading then. At least it would be quick. 

John’s captors pushed him forward. Without their support the pain in his legs was too much and John fell hard into the sand at the executioner’s feet. The rest of the men gathered laughed and spoke in harsh, hateful tones. John understood a fair bit of the insults that were thrown at him but refused to be provoked. He was about to die and he was going to have at least one shred of dignity. He raised himself to his knees and turned his back to the executioner. There was a young man standing a few feet in front of him, a rough looking news camera in his hands. An obnoxious dot of red light indicated that he was recording. 

The humiliation was numbing. 

But there was one silver lining. Perhaps Sherlock would see the video and deem John’s murder at least a seven. An interesting murder would be the last gift he could give his lover. 

A tear, all the moisture John was sure he had left in his body, slipped from his eyelashes and down his check, burning a salty scar on his skin. He would miss Sherlock so much, and maybe he was a selfish prick, but he wanted one more moment with the consulting detective. 

“Phone,” he said, mustering all of his strength to sound affirmative and brave. “Please.” 

He heard the men talk, loudly, quickly, but was only able to catch a few words. It gave him a headache. So, John stared out over the horizon, away from the camera, away from the executioner, and looked at the sky for the last time. It was the very beginning of dawn and a vast blackness frosted with brilliant sprays of stars winked down on him. And on the horizon, set against the far off hills of sand and rock, the first thin lines of day reached for him. The blue that hugged the golden sand was a radiant turquoise that bled one way into a serene navy blue, the other way into white golden thread. It reminded John of Sherlock’s eyes, how unique they were, just like him, holding different shades of so many colours, keeping his secrets locked away. Secrets John would never have the chance to uncover. 

But still, there were no regrets. 

He smiled and greeted the dawn as if it was the first time, not the last. And then his own mobile, which had been confiscated from him upon his capture, was pushed into his hands and he was ordered to make his last call. John didn’t hesitate. He opened up his contact list and hit the only name that mattered. He didn’t even stop to think about actually calling the number. Much as he wanted to hear Sherlock’s voice again, John was a sucker for tradition. So he sent Sherlock his last message in the same way he had sent all the others. 

 **Goodbye, Sherlock**  

His thumb lingered over each letter of Sherlock’s name, caressing them the way he’d never caress his curly haired, insane consulting detective again. He hit send, felt his heart shudder, and then he dropped the phone beside him in the sand, closed his eyes, and waited. 

He could feel the executioner behind him, heard the sigh of the sword as it was raised high in the air. John kept his spine straight, his neck taut, and he faced his death with the sort of courage even Mycroft Holmes would be reluctant to call stupid. He was Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, three years in Afghanistan, a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand, and Bart’s bloody hospital and he was proud of the life he’d lived. 

He only wished he could see Sherlock one more time. Just one more miracle. That would have been enough. 

 ** _Smartarse_**  

John opened his eyes, a smile already spreading across his face even before his brain understood what he had heard. He couldn’t believe it. Yet, when he turned to where the sound had come from, John found himself facing his executioner. The man’s eyes were the same colour as the dawn on the horizon and a dark errant curl kissed his forehead from under his turban. Even with the threat of death hanging over his head, John let loose a fantastic giggle. 

“When I say run,” the executioner instructed his voice so mercifully familiar that John felt tears sting his eyes, “run!” 

And with that, the tall man swung his arms out in a large arch and struck the man nearest him. 

“Ah!” the victim cried. The sword had swiped along his knuckles, cutting at the fingers that held tight to a semi-automatic rifle. The injured man released his gun to cradle his wounds. Without giving the others a chance, John ducked and rolled, picking up the weapon that had been dropped, and started shooting. 

He struck the cameraman first, shooting his kneecaps, then he did the same to two E.L.I. members who had started firing their own guns, immobilizing them efficiently although unable to get their weapons away from them lest he leave Sherlock’s back uncovered. 

As for Sherlock bloody Holmes, he was dispatching terrorists rather well with his sabre but John knew steel would not beat gunpowder. He needed to get Sherlock as far away as he could. Fighting the numb pain in his legs, John forced himself to his feet and reached for Sherlock. He gripped the man’s black robes like they were his salvation, pulled him to his side, and started to run. 

“Now!” Sherlock hollered and suddenly there was gunfire coming from every direction as some E.L.I. members turned their weapons on their comrades while others (and John was certain he’d not seen them before) seemed to bleed out of the darkness, guns drawn. 

“You brought your own army?!” John laughed. 

“It seemed prudent to come prepared,” Sherlock replied, his eyes smiling as he took John’s hand in his. His fingers were slim, pale, his hand large enough that it engulfed John’s. John squeezed the palm in his, feeling safe for the first time in months even as bullets rained down on them, one so close that John felt the tip of his ear burn with gunpowder residue. “Head for the truck.” 

John looked to where Sherlock indicated. It was one of the several armoured vehicles that surrounded the area. His goal in sight, and his own personal Lawrence of Arabia at his side, John ran as fast as his aching legs would take him. It was a feat to keep up with Sherlock’s long stride, and the pins and needles pain that had been creeping up his legs now felt like one million licking tongues of fire, but John kept running, determined and sure that he would escape. 

He never even felt the bullet drive through his thigh. 

John slammed into the sand, Sherlock alongside him, their hands still clasped together. He didn’t have the strength to roll on his back. Sherlock did it for him, rough and desperate when he saw the sand under John’s body going muddy with blood. 

“Damn,” John grunted as the pain began to register. One didn’t ever get used to getting shot. Each bullet was different. “It hit my femoral artery,” he said, realizing the blood was pulsing out of his wound like a crimson geyser. “Leave me.” 

“No.” 

“I can’t run with this and you can’t carry me. We are miles from a hospital. I’m going to bleed out.” 

“Shut up!” Sherlock commanded, ripping off his headscarf. “Use this.” He made John use part of the headscarf to press down on his wound, the other he tied on John’s thigh, making a tourniquet. 

“It won’t work,” John insisted, dropping his hand from his leg, trying to compartmentalize the pain in his mind so he could make his final moments count. Sherlock pulled John against him roughly and pressed down on the injury, ignoring the gunfire that surrounded them. Just the two of them against the rest of the world. 

“You know, for us, this is really quite romantic,” John joked. 

“Don’t be an idiot.” 

“You’re not being very comforting to a dying man in his last minutes.” 

“You are not dying!” Sherlock cried, his eyes going glassy with the tears he refused to shed. “These aren’t your last minutes. You have billions of more minutes left before you reach your last.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” John said, the pain beginning to take hold, his body shaking as he went into shock. He raised a trembling hand to Sherlock’s cheek. “I’m glad. I wanted one more miracle: to see you again.” 

“I know,” Sherlock said, his voice shaking as he put all of his weight against John’s leg. “I heard you.” 

John smiled, remembering the text alert that had shattered his execution. 

“That’s true, isn’t it?” he replied and he let the tears slip from his eyes. “I’m going to miss you.” 

“John –” 

“Goodbye, Sherlock.” 

“John! John!” 

But John couldn’t hear Sherlock’s voice as the encroaching blackness took him, leaving only the memory of Sherlock’s eyes, eyes the colour of the horizon at dawn in the desert, for John to follow into oblivion.

 

* * *

 

The first thing John noticed when he woke up was that his leg didn’t hurt nearly as bad as it had before. The second thing he’d noticed was that he was alive, which was odd considering he recalled being very sure of his death somewhere in the desert of Karachi. He’d survived being shot…again. But how did he get out of the desert? And where was he? He tried to remember. 

He remembered being shot, Sherlock holding him close as the sting of the bullet wracked his body with a clawing fire that seemed to eat his flesh from the inside out. He’d been in pain, and then nothingness, and then he was moving, then not moving. There had been a fever, there must have been, and Sherlock’s voice and his violin and the smell of tea, the terrible tang of medication. Whichever painkillers he was being fed, they were still in his system, just a little, because John’s head still felt fuzzy and it took him several long minutes before he even realized that he wasn’t in a hospital. Which was wrong, because of course he should be in a hospital, he’d been bloody shot! But the bed was far too comfortable, the sheets too soft, the pillows too plush and the room too full with natural light for it to be anything close to clinical. 

Struggling to sit up, John took in his surroundings. He was in someone’s bedroom. It was a familiar room, although the last time John had been in it it had been dark and he’d been distracted by the six foot tall mad man writhing under him to really take in any details. 

The furniture was an eclectic mix of old world antiques and modern conveniences, and there was little of it cluttering the space. The walls were a different matter, the wallpaper barely noticeable under the variety of charts, posters and pictures that spotted every free bit of space. A large periodic table was framed over the bed, and another document written in a langue John couldn’t read was given a place of honour near the window. Hand-painted illustrations of Belladonna and Foxglove were placed in between shadowboxes of insects in one well lit corner, as well as what John believed was an original Da Vinci sketch of the anatomy of a bird’s wing. He could just make out a framed photograph of what looked to be an infant Sherlock in the arms of a very chubby Mycroft, but it was covered in dust and sequestered in a far, dark corner of the room. There was a creased copy of _Arsenic and Old Lace_ on the bedside table and John smiled as he imagined Sherlock reading the play to him while he slept. 

Speaking of Sherlock, he wasn’t in the room, but he was certainly close by. John could smell cooking. To be more precise, he could smell bacon. His stomach growled. Knowing he was being a terrible patient, John slid himself out of bed, using the wall and a cane that had been propped against the nightstand to support himself. 

It felt like a terrible setback to be using a cane again, but unlike before, John’s leg wound was not psychosomatic. He’d been shot good and proper and would likely have a limp for the rest of his life. He took a moment to feel sorry for himself, to have a good pout about the whole damned situation, but then he shook it off and took his first few steps. Nothing would be accomplished if he lamented the past. Besides, there was Sherlock to find, and a gunshot to the leg wasn’t about to stop John from that mission. 

He moved slowly, creeping out of Sherlock’s bedroom and into the hallway. The smell of bacon was stronger there, and he could detect other scents. Eggs, and toast and tatties. His mouth watered at the thought. Stumbling along, and being impressively quiet, John made his way into the kitchen of 221 B. 

Sherlock was wearing a tartan dressing gown and safety goggles. Seeing him so close, his tall lanky body, his mop of wild curls, his outrageous cheekbones felt like a miracle. A bit overcome, John reached out for Sherlock but lost his footing and the cane clanked to the floor, forcing him to catch himself on the table. 

“John!” Sherlock scolded, abandoning the bacon to reach for his companion. “I didn’t expect you to be awake just yet,” he began, helping John to sit down at the table, gentle in his ministrations. “Do you want some morphine? I have some tablets.” He reached for a bottle on top of the refrigerator. 

“I’m fine,” John said, though he certainly didn’t feel it. He was sore and tired and hungry but most of all, he was very confused. “What happened?” he asked. 

“You were shot,” Sherlock explained, taking off his goggles. 

“I’d figured that much out for myself, thanks” John snipped. “How did I get here?” 

“I brought you.” 

“I should be in hospital.” 

“You were. For three weeks.” 

“Jesus,” John groaned. “I thought I’d died.” 

“You nearly did,” Sherlock said, returning to the stove to tend his bacon. “The bullet grazed your femoral artery and you nearly bled out. We had to do a blood transfusion en route to a hospital and then you were in surgery for hours. It was…unsettling.” 

“Sorry I worried you,” John replied, vague, morphine drenched memories of the desert, of being lifted over and over, of Sherlock’s voice and his eyes and his hand holding his, of the smell of disinfectant and the sensation of being cold and hot. “Did I get an infection?” 

“Mmm,” Sherlock replied. “En route back to England. It took days to get it under control. The hospital wouldn’t release you into my care until your fever broke. That was two days ago.” 

“Your care?” John echoed. 

“Yes. You are a felon, John, and while there will never be charges pressed against you for treason it is within your best interest to remain in the United Kingdom so it was decided by the British Government that you are to remain in the custody of one of England’s most upstanding private citizens.” 

“You are many things, Sherlock Holmes, and upstanding is not the word I would use,” John joked, blushing when Sherlock turned to wink at him. 

“It helps that my brother _is_ the British Government,” Sherlock said, swearing to himself that it was the only time he would ever be grateful to share DNA with Mycroft. “He wants me to keep an eye on you, ensure that you don’t return to your old lifestyle.” 

“Not if I don’t have to,” John promised, thinking of Harry all the way in Canada, hoping she was getting the help she needed and not hating him. He thought of Moriarty too, imagining the crazy bastard locked away in some dark, damp oubliette never to harm anyone ever again. If Mycroft was as smart as John believed he was, he’d had James Moriarty killed, cleanly, quietly, and the body destroyed. 

“I like playing the violin,” Sherlock said, surprising John from his thoughts. He looked over at Sherlock. The man’s back was facing him. 

“I know,” he answered, remembering how beautifully Sherlock had serenaded him that one night months ago. It had been as sensual a seduction as any John had ever received. 

“I play mostly when I’m thinking,” Sherlock continued. “Sometimes I don’t talk for days. Would that bother you? Flatmates should know the worst about each other, don’t you agree?” 

“Flatmates?” 

“Obviously. You have been released into my custody which means you must remain with me unless you’d rather go to prison. I’m not saying that time in gaol would make you less attractive to me, John, but I far prefer your military record and medial background rather than your criminal history, even though it does make you more interesting.” 

John stared at Sherlock’s back, his words still ringing in his ears. Sherlock fancied him. He thought John was attractive and interesting. He wanted John to live with him and best of all, John could. He was, for all intents and purposes, a free man. All he had to do was stay with Sherlock. Considering there was nowhere else he wanted to be, John was elated. 

“I love you,” he said, the heat of the moment and the radiating happiness that filled his body with each beat of his heart sweeping him away. He realized what he’d said when Sherlock froze, shoulders stiff and hands poised over the stovetop. It was probably too much, and really, how was it even possible for John to be in love with a man he’d only seen a handful of times in the last year and a half? All they really had between them were hundreds of text messages and a single night. How did that even quantify as love? 

But it was. 

John Watson was in love with Sherlock Holmes. He’d said it aloud for the object of his affection to hear, and it seemed that he had scared the life out of him. It was too much again, too much data, too much emotion, too much everything too soon. Sherlock was uncomfortable and that was the last thing John wanted. He opened his mouth and took a deep breath, prepared to take it back his feelings even if it wasn’t true, but Sherlock turned around, walked up to him in two long strides, and kissed John full on the mouth. 

It was tender and sweet, a seduction of an entirely different kind. In that kiss there was no lust, no demanding desire, no playful nips or teasing tongues. It was a kiss filled with promise, with devotion, fealty. It was a kiss that vowed early morning snuggles, serenades on the violin, arguments over body parts in the kitchen and grumbling over programs on the tele, midnight chases through London, sitting by the fire, Baker Street and 221 B, and all of their tomorrows together. It was a kiss that promised always. 

When Sherlock pulled away, John knew. He knew without Sherlock having to say the words. Perhaps he couldn’t say them, perhaps racing pulses and dilated pupils were the only language of love Sherlock could speak. But it didn’t matter. In the end, Sherlock said it best by saying nothing. He loved John, too. 

It was enough. 

John smiled at Sherlock, stroked his cheek, and Sherlock leaned into the caress before kissing John’s wrist and moving back towards the stove. John watched, content, as Sherlock finished cooking and heaped the hot food on two plates. Fluffy scrambled eggs, toast drenched in butter, slices of tomato, crispy seasoned tatties, and bacon burnt around the edges the way John liked it. Placing a plate before John, Sherlock took a seat at his left with his own plate. He passed John the jam, spooned some honey onto his toast, and offered John a cup of fresh tea. 

“Now then,” he said, filling his own mug with tea. “Let’s have breakfast.” 

John laughed and tucked in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote! Hope you enjoyed the story!


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